BARONESS  VONHUTTEN 


CupyrlKlic.  1909,  by 
Frederick  A.  Siokes  Company 


BEECHY" 


B  E  E  C  H  Y 

OR 

THE  LORDSHIP   OF  LOVE 


BY 

BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 

AUTHOR  OF  "OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES,"  " 
"PAM  DECIDES,"  ETC. 

WITH  COLORED  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
A.  G.  LEARNED 


FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  v  .'.  v  PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
BITTINA  VON  HUTTBW 


All  Rights  Reserved 


September, 


DEDICATION 

To  Bareness  Louise  von  Hutten,  my 
mother-in-law,  and  always  one  of  my  dearest 
friends,  I  dedicate  this  book  as  a  slight  re- 
membrance of  all  her  kindness  to  me. 

B.  v.  H. 


2228503 


IT  may  be  as  well  to  explain  to  those  of  my  readers  who 
know  nothing  of  Italian,  that  the  Italian  diminutive  of 
Beatrice,  "  Bice  "  or  "  Bici,"  does  not  rhyme  with  "  mice," 
but  is  pronounced  very  nearly  as  I  have  anglicized  it, 
"  Beechy." 

And  may  I  take  this  opportunity,  in  the  old-fashioned 
way,  of  saying  that  I  hope  the  American  public,  always  so 
kind  to  my  books,  and  so  dear  to  me,  may  like  my  poor 
Beechy  as  well  as  they  like  the  very  grateful  Pam  and 
Tommy  ? 

BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN, 

Col  de  la  Schlucht,  Vosges, 

May  4th,  1909. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  STREET  OF  THE  VIOLIN     ...  i 

II.»  A  CHANGE  OF  SEX     ......  8 

III.  THE  STORY  OF  A  REHEARSAL     ...  15 

IV.  THE  JOY  OF  BEING  A  BOY     ...  23 
V.  AT  THE  Two  QUEENS 29 

VI.  THE  EMPTY  CRADLE 38 

VII.  ONE  WAY  TO  FACE  THE  WORLD     .     .  44 

III.  PROMOTION     .........  51 

IX.  FATHER  ANTONIO                            ..     .  60 
X.  WHY   GIACOMINI'S  FACE   WAS 

SCRATCHED «  67 

XI.  WHY  BEECHY  BECAME  A  GIRL     ^    ^  75 

XII.  THE  CALL  OF  THE  ORPHANS    .     .     .  85 

XIII.  IN  THE  CONVENT 94 

XIV.  BACK  TO  THE  THEATRE     .      .     .     .  101 
XV.  OLD   FRIENDS 109 

XVI.  BEECHY  MEETS  A  PRINCE  AND  A  TENOR  119 

XVII.  A  BUNDLE  OF  LETTERS 129 

XVIII.  '£NRY   PEECRAFT'S    LETTER      .  139 

XIX.  THE  ROVING  DROP 146 

XX.  BEECHY  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON     .     .     .  152 

XXI.  AUNT  AUGUSTA 160 

XXII.  A  TEA-PARTY  AND  A  HAM  BONE     .     .  169 

XXIII.  ABOUT  AURELIO 177 

XXIV.  BUCINI  1 88 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV.  "ADDA"  AND  AN  EVENING  FROCK     .  196 

XXVI.  A  YEAR  LATER 206 

XXVII.  BEECHY  MEETS  LORD  CHARLES  CRES- 

SAGE 214 

XXVIII.  LORD  CHARLES'S  FIRST  STEP     .     .     .  223 

XXIX.  A  SMALL  DINNER 229 

XXX.  ROMAN  SKETCHES 236 

XXXI.  LORD  CHARLES  MAKES  LOVE     .     .     .  241 
XXXII.  BEECHY  MAKES  LOVE  AND  MEETS  A 

STRANGER 248 

XXXIII.  LADY  CHARLES 255 

XXXIV.  SlGNOR    SCARPIA    AND    IL    SlGNOR    LORD  26 1 

XXXV.  BEECHY  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND     .     .  268 

XXXVI.  THE  FATE  OF  BEECHY'S  GARDENIA     .  275 

XXXVII.  THE    HONOURABLE   MRS.    BOB      .     .281 

XXXVIII.  THE  WHITE  COTTAGE 288 

XXXIX.  "  MADNESS  IN  THE  BRAIN  "...  295 

XL.  THE   DUCHESS'S   CONCERT     .      .      .  304 
XLI.  LORD    CHARLES    TELLS   THE    TRUTH 

ABOUT  His  OTHER  LOVES     .      .     .  313 

XLII.  Two  LETTERS     ...     .     .     .     .  322 

XLIII.  THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  BLUE  CAPE     .  330 

XLIV.  "  CERTAINLY  THE  LORDSHIP  is  EVIL  "  338 

XLV.  LADY  SHALLOP 347 

XLVI.  IN  A  BALCONY 356 

XLVII.  "  CERTAINLY  THE  LORDSHIP  OF  Lovi 

is  GOOD  " 365 

XLVIII.  BEECHY  TAKES  UP  A  NEW  DUTY     .  375 


BEECHY 


BEECHY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  STREET  OF  THE  VIOLIN 

WHOSE  had  been  the  violin  for  which  the  street 
was  named,  no  one  knew  with  certainty,  but 
there  was  a  tale  that  a  cripple  dwelling  there 
years  ago  when  the  grim  old  palaces  were  new,  had  one 
warm  summer  evening  been  playing  in  his  window  when  a 
crowd  of  gay  youths  passed  and  paused  to  listen. 

Knowing  the  street  one  can  picture  the  scene;  the  moon- 
light cutting  the  narrow  way  in  two,  the  sharp  roofs  jut- 
ting against  the  bright  sky,  the  velvety  darkness,  the  golden 
moonlight,  the  lights  in  some  of  the  windows,  the  blankness 
of  those  behind  which  good  Roman  gentlefolk  slept.  And 
pouring  down  from  the  high  balcony  with  the  delicately 
fluted  pillars,  the  wailing  of  the  cripple's  violin. 

The  band  of  gaily-dressed  revellers,  heated  by  the  wine 
of  the  feast  they  had  just  left,  laughing  and  jesting,  pour 
into  the  quiet  place  like  a  cluster  of  bright-coloured  flowers 
on  a  stream. 

"  Hush ! "  says  one.  And  they  all  pause  and  stem  the 
idle  words  on  the  young  lips,  for  he  who  says  hush  is  their 
leader.  So  there  they  stood  for  a  while,  listening,  and 
watching  the  face  of  him  with  the  violet  velvet  cap. 

The  cripple,  unseeing,  plays  on,  the  bitterness  of  his  heart 


2  BEECHY 

in  his  music,  and  when  at  last  he  stops,  the  youths  tiptoe 
out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light. 

"Who  plays?"  asks  the  leader. 

After  a  pause  the  player,  leaning  over  his  beautiful  para- 
pet, and  peering  at  them,  answers  surlily,  "  No  one.  A 
cripple." 

"A  musician,  friend,"  contradicts  the  other  happily,  in 
his  generous  young  voice — "  a  great  musician.  Where  are 
we,  what  is  the  name  of  this  street,  that  I  may  return?" 

But  the  cripple  draws  back  and  is  silent. 

The  youth  doffs  his  velvet  cap.  "  I  crave  your  pardon," 
he  says,  still  with  that  invincible  gaiety  of  his,  "  I  shall  re- 
turn nevertheless  to  hear  you  play  to  Madonna  Luna.  And 
as  to  the  street,  I  will  give  it  a  name  of  my  own ;  la  via  del 
Violino." 

Then,  laughing,  he  led  his  friends  down  towards  the 
river. 

Whether  he  comes  back  the  story  does  not  tell,  but  one 
hopes  he  did.  Whether  the  story  is  true,  no  one  knows, 
but  one  hopes  it  is,  for  the  violet-capped  youth,  it  tells,  was 
Raphael. 

At  all  events  it  is  a  pleasant  little  tale,  and  all  pleasant 
little  tales  should  be  true. 

The  Street  of  the  Violin,  then,  was  in  its  glory  in  the 
divine  Urbino's  time,  and  its  vicissitudes  have  been  many. 

Roman  palaces  were  built  by  men  who  knew  their  work, 
and  who  did  it  well,  and  even  to-day  the  great  walls  are 
as  sound  as  they  were  the  day  they  were  completed.  But 
they  are  blackened  and  discoloured,  the  coats  of  arms  over 
the  doors  are  broken  and  defaced,  the  great  families  have 
died  out  or  sold  their  unfashionably  situated  property,  and 
the  street,  once  glorious,  has  become  a  street  of  the  poor. 


THE   STREET  OF   THE   VIOLIN  3 

Behind  the  rusty  bars  at  the  lower  windows,  time-black- 
ened blinds  are  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs.  And  under 
the  once  imposing  archways,  where  stood  portly  and  digni- 
fied major-domos,  small  and  humble  shops  have  done  their 
trade  for  many  years.  But  to  a  little  girl  who  lived  there 
nearly  thirty  years  ago,  the  Street  of  the  Violin  was  a  very 
delightful  place  indeed.  For  it  was  a  home  to  her. 

The  room  high  up  under  the  jutting,  fluted  roof  in  the 
Palazzo  Vincenzini  was  the  centre  of  her  home,  to  be  sure, 
for  there  lived  her  father,  and  there  she  slept,  but  the  street 
itself,  with  its  cheerful,  gossiping  swarms  of  people,  its 
ever-changing  excitements,  its  never-failing  variety  of  amuse- 
ment, was  Beatrice  Cavaleone's  whole  world. 

There  was  an  old  man  who  made  cane  seats  for  chairs 
in  a  small  corner  shop,  and  who  was  possessed  of  a  vast 
store  of  useful  and  thrilling  information  which,  as  he  wove 
his  coarse  material,  he  greatly  enjoyed  giving  out  to  an  en- 
thralled audience  of  one. 

It  was  he,  old  Lamberti,  who  told  Beechy,  as  her  English 
mother  had  called  her,  all  about  Garibaldi  in  his  famous 
red  shirt,  and  Victor  Emanuel,  il  Re  Galant  'Uomo,  who 
created  the  greatest  kingdom  on  the  broad  earth,  and  shut 
up  the  villainous  old  pope.  He  also  told  the  child  about 
the  Coliseum,  a  distant  ruin  ten  times  as  high  as  the  highest 
palace  in  the  street,  whither  he  had  once  gone  in  his  youth. 

"And  the  Capitol,"  he  explained,  taking  a  huge  pinch 
of  snuff,  "  where  the  wolves  are.  Long  ago,  you  know,  all 
the  Romans  were  wolves." 

But  this  statement  Beechy  received  with  silent  incredulity. 
Her  mind  was  so  constituted  that  she  could  not  believe  cer- 
tain things. 

Lamberti  was  a  kind  old  man  who  often  shared  with  her 


4  BEECHY 

the  bowl  of  macaroni  that  was  brought  to  him  every  day 
at  half  past  eleven  from  The  Beautiful  Florentine  over  the 
way,  and  Beechy  loved  him.  Then  there  was  The  Beau- 
tiful Florentine  itself,  a  small  dingy  restaurant  with  six 
tables  covered  with  red  cloths,  and,  at  the  back,  between 
the  sala  (in  which  hung  an  exceedingly  lovely  oleograph  of 
the  young  Queen  Margherita)  and  the  kitchen,  a  kind  of  bar 
where  flashed  and  sparkled  not  only  flasks  of  wine  of  the 
Roman  castles,  whose  generous  richness  left  a  beautiful  stain 
in  one's  glass,  but  also  bottles  of  golden  and  crimson  and 
green  liqueurs. 

Signer  Benedetto,  the  proprietor  of  the  restaurant,  a  one- 
eyed  man  who  had  seen  the  Pope,  and  Signora  Marianna,  his 
wife,  were  very  kind  to  the  sick  gentleman's  little  one. 

Signora  Marianna,  who  had  eleven  children,  was  glad 
enough  to  allow  Beatrice  to  sit  in  the  warm,  stuffy,  untidy 
kitchen  and  keep  Peppino  and  Luisina  and  Chiarina  from 
falling  over  the  pots  and  pans;  and  more  often  than  any- 
one knew  the  sick  gentleman's  extremely  humble  dinner,  the 
money  for  which  arrived  with  the  utmost  regularity  tied 
in  a  rag  of  the  child's  frock,  was  augmented  by  some  dainty 
morsel  quite  beyond  his  means  to  buy. 

Old  Agnese,  too,  whose  brutal  son  kept  a  bird-shop  when 
he  was  not  in  prison,  where  luckily  he  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  time,  liked  Beechy,  and  had  once  given  her  a 
small  bird  who  sang  like  a  feathered  angel  until  the  cat  of 
a  seamstress  living  on  the  same  landing  as  the  Cavaleones, 
made  a  meal  of  the  poor  little  creature. 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  for  a  child  who,  in  slightly  better 
circumstances  would  undoubtedly  have  been  lonely,  the 
Street  of  the  Violin  was  a  magic  place  full  of  delights,  where 
people  were  kind  and  food  almost  always  forthcoming. 


THE   STREET   OF    THE    VIOLIN  5 

Freedom  is  a  most  excellent  thing,  and  freedom  Bici 
Cavaleone  had  unlimitedly;  friends  are  good,  and  friends 
were  hers;  health,  too,  she  possessed  to  a  remarkable  degree; 
and  she  was  very  young  indeed  when  she  discovered  another 
of  her  greatest  gifts:  beauty. 

Her  father,  "  II  Signore  Malato,"  as  they  called  him  in 
the  street,  had  been  an  invalid  ever  since  she  could  re- 
member— the  result  of  an  accident;  and  never  once  within 
her  memory  had  he  been  able  to  do  more  than  with  infinite 
pains  cross  the  floor  from  his  bed  to  the  little  loggia  where, 
rumour  had  it,  the  cripple  had  played  that  night  to  the 
young  Raphael. 

"  It  is  a  fatal  room,"  Cavaleone  said  once,  to  his  only 
friend,  a  certain  long,  lank,  haggard  old  man  known  to  the 
street  as  the  Commendatore.  "  If  the  legend  is  true  the 
violinist  of  Raphael  could  hardly  walk.  Albertino  Spada,  of 
my  grandfather's  time,  lived  here  for  ten  years  with  a  broken 
back,  and  now — me!" 

The  Commendatore,  who  was  roasting  a  long  thin  cigar 
over  a  candle,  waited  until  he  had  succeeded  in  coaxing  the 
tightly  rolled  tobacco  to  ignite,  before  he  answered. 

"  You  didn't  hurt  your  back  here,"  he  said. 

The  Sick  Gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders  gaily.  "  To 
whom  do  you  tell  it  ?  It  is  a  beautiful  room,  isn't  it  ?  "  he 
went  on,  his  musical  voice  warmed  by  enthusiasm.  "  I  some- 
times believe  Raffaele  did  come  back — that  those  scraps  of 
fresco  are  his.  Look  at  that  panel  of  fruit.  Very  like  the 
Stanze  decorations " 

The  Commendatore  smiled,  the  queer  smile  that  drew  his 
mouth  so  far  up  under  his  nose. 

"  Marvellous  man,"  he  returned. 

The  child,  then  about  nine  years  old,  who  was  sitting 


6  BEECHY 

near  them  playing  with  a  grey  kitten  and  a  string  of  coral 
beads,  looked  up. 

"  Why  is  Papa  a  marvellous  man  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  don't  growl  and  make  a  fuss,  my  dear,"  an- 
swered Cavaleone  simply. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  dark  blue  eyes  so  like  his  own. 
"Why  should  you  growl  and  make  a  fuss?"  she  asked,  as 
simply. 

The  Commendatore,  who  had  hated  her  mother,  glared 
into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room  in  a  fuming  silence,  but 
Cavaleone,  laying  his  thin  hand  on  the  child's  head,  said  in 
French,  "  She  has  never  seen  me  different,  remember,  old 
friend." 

Beechy,  whose  eyes  were  sharp  as  well  as  beautiful, 
watched  the  two  faces  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then  got 
up  and  kissed  her  father. 

"/  no  love — a  heem"  she  said,  with  a  nod  towards  the 
old  man,  and  her  father  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Run  away  to  bed,  dear,"  he  said,  gently,  "  you  are 
wrong,  for  he  is  good " 

The  bed  was  out  of  earshot  when  the  two  men  spoke  low, 
for  the  old  room  was  very  large. 

Beechy  crept  under  the  covers  and  lay  watching  her 
father's  face  as  he  talked  long  and  earnestly  to  the  older 
man. 

She  knew,  although  she  could  not  hear,  that  they  were 
discussing  her.  She  knew  that  the  Commendatore  did  not 
like  her,  and  she  did  not  care,  for  he  was  ugly  and  silent, 
and  crabbed.  But  she  knew  that  his  dislike  for  her  troubled 
her  father. 

That  evening  was  one  of  many  very  like  it,  but  somehow 
that  particular  one  stayed  in  her  memory.  It  was  a  cold 
night  in  November,  and  the  wind  howled  venomously ;  loose 


THE  STREET  OF   THE   VIOLIN  ^ 

blinds  flapped  and  banged,  something  on  the  roof  creaked 
with  a  continuous  grinding  noise. 

And  within  the  vast  room  reigned  the  darkness  that  is  a 
part  of  poverty.  The  small  bright  place  where  the  two  men 
sat,  the  yellow  light  of  the  cheap  lamp,  the  red  glow  from 
the  charcoal  brazier  which  was  all  the  fire  they  had,  sending 
a  faint  glow,  pale  fingers  of  light,  into  the  encompassing 
gloom  that  somehow,  to  the  imaginative  child,  seemed  to  in- 
crease the  howling  of  the  storm,  the  darkness  of  the  un- 
broken blackness  of  the  corners  of  the  room. 

Her  father's  long,  well-modelled  head,  leaning,  as  it  al- 
ways leaned,  against  the  back  of  the  old  leather  chair  in 
which  he  lived,  was  well  in  the  circle  of  light  thrown  by 
the  lamp ;  a  little  out  of  the  light,  but  reddened  by  the  glow 
from  the  brazier,  the  ugly,  underhung  face  of  the  older  man. 

And  near  them,  on  the  deal  table  that  Donna  Marianna 
had  procured  for  them  in  the  final  collapse  of  the  one  with 
which  Beechy  had,  she  felt,  grown  up,  lay  the  dominoes 
with  which  her  father  amused  himself  by  the  hour. 

"  Now  I  lay  my  down  to  sleep,"  prayed  the  child 
mechanically,  in  the  old  prayer  taught  her  by  her  mother, 
the  words  of  which  meant  absolutely  nothing  to  her,  "  I 
pray  thy  Lord  my  soul  to  keep " 

And  quietly,  happily,  her  last  sleepy  glances  for  her  father, 
she  dropped  asleep. 

The  room  was  poor  and  sordid;  her  bed  hard;  the 
air  was  chill,  and  winter,  enemy  of  the  poor,  was  at  hand, 
but  she  went  to  sleep  happy. 

For  the  lamp-glow,  the  faint-coloured  paintings  on  the 
wall,  the  carved,  once-gilded  cornice  in  the  dusk  overhead, — 
the  very  pillow,  hard  as  only  an  Italian  pillow  can  be, — 
these  things  meant  to  the  little  creature,  home. 


CHAPTER!  II 

A  CHANGE  OF  SEX 

LLTER,  looking  back  at  her  own  life,  the  next  scene 
that  stood  out  definitely  against  the  background  of 
shifting,  indistinct  events,  was  a  very  different  one. 

Her  father,  some  two  years  after  the  evening  when  the 
wind  so  howled,  lay  in  bed  with  closed  eyes, — the  first  time 
she  had  ever  seen  him  in  bed  after  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

It  was  autumn  again,  but  it  was  broad  day,  the  pale 
afternoon  sun  showing  up  all  the  poverty  of  the  room,  and 
dancing,  through  a  bottle  of  water  in  a  little  blot  of  light, 
on  the  wall. 

The  Sick  Gentleman  was  ill. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  sat  good  Signora  Marianna,  a  baby 
at  her  breast,  and  Beechy  herself  carrying  the  baby  before 
last. 

The  doctor,  a  short  man  with  an  extremely  ugly  harelip 
that  made  Beechy  feel  rather  ill,  had  just  gone,  leaving  on 
the  table  two  bits  of  paper  covered  with  hieroglyphics. 

Silence  reigned  but  for  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  baby 
before  last,  a  large  and  inconveniently  fat  boy  of  three. 

"  I  haven't  a  soldo,"  observed  Beechy,  after  a  long  pause. 
"What  shall  I  do?" 

Signora  Marianna  sighed  so  deeply  that  she  disturbed  the 
last  baby  who  growled  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

"  Carina  povera  mia !  I  have  five  francs  for  the  medicine, 
and  the  wine — all  the  wine  in  the  shop  is  his — that  you 

8 


A    CHANGE  OF  SEX  9 

know.  But — !  The  blessed  Madonna  herself  knows  that 
I  have  no  money  for  long  illnesses.  If  poor  Benedetto  had 
lived — ah,  my  dear,  there  was  a  man!  I  always  said  that 
his  one  eye  was  more  use  than  the  two  of  any  other  man  I 
ever  knew!  But  peace  to  his  soul,  he  has  gone,  and  what 
am  I  to  do  with  ten  living  children  and  his  old  mother,  God 
bless  her,  who  eats  as  much  as  two  able-bodied  men !  " 

Beechy  nodded.  The  mixture  of  complaint  and  real,  hon- 
est charity  that  is  in  the  very  poor  was  not  new  to  her.  And 
she,  too,  lamented  the  death  of  good  Benedetto,  who  had 
died  in  the  spring  of  a  fever. 

"There  is  nothing  to  sell,"  she  observed  presently. 
"  No,"  assented  Signora  Marianna. 

The  clock  had  gone,  the  coral  beads,  a  silk  gown  that  had 
belonged  to  the  child's  mother. 
There  was  a  long  silence. 
Then,  suddenly,  Beechy  rose.     "  I  will  go  and  get  the 

medicine,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  give  me  the  money " 

Signora  Marianna  fumbled  in  her  dark  green  skirt  and 
at  length  produced  two  dirty  bits  of  paper  which,  pieced  to- 
gether, proved  to  be  an  ancient  five-lire  note. 
Beechy  took  them  with  a  careless  nod. 
"  Thank  you,  dear  Signora  Marianna,"  she  said,  but  hers 
was  a  nature  of  the  receiving  kind.     She  would  give,  will- 
ingly, whatever  she  might  have,  but  having  little  to  give 
did  not  trouble  her,  and  to  accept  gracefully,  even  graciously, 
was  part  of  her. 

Taking  up  her  shawl,  an  ancient  square  of  deep  purple 
woollen  stuff,  she  put  it  over  her  head  and  shoulders,  after 
the  inherited  graceful  manner  of  the  Roman  woman,  and 
closing  the  door  softly  after  her,  went  lightly  down  the 
dark  stairway. 


*o  BEECHY 

At  the  first  floor  a  door  suddenly  opened  and  a  boy  of 
about  her  own  age  came  running  after  her. 

"  'Ngiorno,  Bici,"  he  exclaimed,  pronouncing  properly  the 
diminution  of  her  beautiful  name. 

"  Buongiorno,  Simeone." 

"Thy  father  is  ill?" 

The  boy  was  very  small,  and  very  dark,  with  dark,  long- 
lashed  eyes  and  a  musical  voice. 

Beechy  looked  at  him  affectionately.  "Yes,  Simeone.  I 
am  going  to  the  apothecary's  to  get  him  a  draught.  Where 
are  you  going?" 

Simeone  laughed.  "  I  ?  To  the  Teatro  Leopardi !  I  am 
singing  in  opera." 

Beechy's  red  underlip  shot  out  suddenly  in  amused  dis- 
belief. "  In  opera,  you  ?  Oh,  you  little  liar." 

Simeone  was  too  thoroughly  a  Roman  to  object  to  the 
term.  He  laughed  instead.  "  Ma  e  vero.  It  is  true !  It 
is  an  opera  called  '  Carmen,'  and  there  is  a  chorus  of  boys, 
and  we  are  paid  a  lira  and  a  half  a  week  for  singing  and 
marching." 

In  the  dark  archway  that  led  into  the  street  Beechy 
stopped  short. 

"  But  you  can't  sing!  " 

"  Yes  I  can.  It  goes  like  this — ti — turn,  turn,  turn,  ti, 
deedledy — tumm — tumm  " — he  hummed  the  well-known  air, 
squaring  his  little  shoulders  and  pursing  his  mouth  as  he 
did  so. 

"  It's  very  jolly  music.  And  the  baritone  gave  me  some 
chocolates, — and  they  all  fight,  and  it's  most  amusing!" 

"  How  much  did  you  say  you  got  a  week  ?  "  interrupted 
Beechy,  her  small  face  very  keen  under  the  purple  shawl  as 
she  awaited  his  answer. 


A    CHANGE   OF  SEX  n 

"  One  fifty." 

"  H'm.  And  you  have  no  voice!  What  do  they  get, 
those  others,  who  have  a  voice  ?  " 

Simeone's  jaw  fell. 

"  Who  have  a  voice  ?  WTiat  do  I  know  ?  We  are  a  lot. 
We  must  be  fifty  boys,"  he  bragged.  "  And  when  we  sing 
it  is  beautiful." 

It  was  raining  now  though  the  sun  still  shone  faintly. 
Opposite,  the  arched  doorway  of  a  charcoal  shop,  at  the  back 
of  which  glowed  a  faint  fire,  looked  as  if  cut  out  of  black 
velvet. 

Simeone  watched  Beechy  longingly.  He  admired  her,  but 
he  was  afraid  of  her. 

"And  the  girls?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"The — the  girls?  There  aren't  any.  At  least  there 
aren't  any  little  ones,"  he  stammered. 

"  No  little  ones?    As  little  as — as  me?  " 

Her  eyes  were  suddenly  very  anxious  and  his  feeling  of 
manly  superiority  was  restored  as  suddenly. 

"  Che!  No.  All  the  girls  are  big — twice  as  big  as  you. 
It  is  only  the  boys'  chorus  who  are  little.  Why,  we  march ! 
Girls  don't  march." 

Beechy  looked  at  him  with  the  faint  protrusion  of  her  red 
lower  lip  that  was  later  to  be  so  well  known.  "  Oh,  don't 
they?"  she  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "Don't  they?" 

And  before  he  could  answer  she  had  darted  out  into 
the  rain,  her  purple  shawl  held  tight  under  her  chin. 

Simeone  watched  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  back 
to  his  father's  rooms,  the  wind  absolutely,  though  quite  un- 
justly, taken  out  of  his  sails. 

The  draught  bought,  and  given  into  Signora  Marianna's 
safe  hands,  Beechy  again  went  down  stairs. 


12  BEECHY 

She  was  very  thoughtful,  evidently,  for  her  narrow  black 
eyebrows  were  drawn  together  a  little,  and  her  full  red 
lips  a  trifle  fixed. 

As  she  passed  Simeone's  door  she  spoke  aloud. 

"  Imbecile,"  she  said. 

Old  Agnese,  the  woman  who  kept  the  bird-shop,  was  sit- 
ting over  her  earthenware  pot  of  red  coals,  telling  her  beads 
drowsily,  when  the  door  burst  open  and  Beechy  came  in. 

"  Madonna  mia,  what  is  it  ?     Is  thy  father  worse,  child  ?  " 

Beechy  shook  her  head  as  she  took  off  her  shawl  and 
picked  up  the  rosary  the  old  woman  had  dropped.  "  No^ 
no,  he's  no  worse,  but — Oh,  Agnese,  will  you  lend  me  a  suit 
of  Giulio's  clothes?" 

"  A  suit  of  Giulio's  clothes?  But,  why — what  is  it,  why 
do  you  want  them  ?  " 

Beechy's  blue  eyes  were  grave  and  anxious,  but  at  the 
sound  of  her  old  friend's  voice  the  child  burst  out  laughing, 
a  big  dimple  dancing  in  her  right  cheek. 

"  Oh,  poor  Agnese,  do  not  be  afraid,"  she  cried,  "  it  is 
only  that  I  must  earn  money.  My  father  is  ill  and  must 
have  many  things,  and  there  is  no  money,  so  I  must  work ! " 

"  Work,  yes,  we  must  all  work,  but — but " 

"  It  is  Simeone  Antonetti  who  sings — sings,  he  I — at  the 
Teatro  Leopardi,  and  only  boys  can  go."  Her  small  face 
was  glowing  with  excitement,  her  cheeks  as  red  as  roses. 

"  But  you  are  not  a  boy,"  insisted  the  old  woman  ob- 
stinately, her  slow  mind  not  taking  in  at  once  what  it  all 
meant. 

Beechy  clasped  her  hands  dramatically,  stretching  them, 
united  out  to  their  full  length.  "  But  don't  you  see"  she 
wailed,  desperate  with  impatience,  "if  I  have  on  Giulio's 
clothes,  I  shall  be  a  boy!  " 


13 

Old  Agnese  burst  out  laughing,  showing  her  old  faded 
gums  in  which  one  huge  hollow  tooth,  like  a  stag's,  still 
clung.  "You  will  be  a  boy!  Oh,  Mamma  mia,  what  a 
child  it  is,  what  a  child." 

But  Beechy's  story  was  tumbling  out  before  she  had 
finished  her  exclamation;  the  excited,  delighted,  confident 
story  told  as  she  was  to  tell  stories  all  her  life,  in  a  way 
that  inculcated  her  hearer,  at  any  rate  for  the  moment,  with 
a  firm  acquiescence  in  her  power  to  do  whatever  she  under- 
took. 

"  And  if  Simeone  can  earn  one  fifty  a  week,"  she  wound 
up  triumphantly,  jerking  on  the  long  pepper  and  salt 
trousers  outgrown  by  her  old  friend's  grandson,  and  shaking 
them  down  with  a  series  of  vigorous  movements.  "  Simeone 
who  sings  like  a  creaking  door, — then  surely  I  can  earn  five 
francs  and  Papa  can  have  all  he  needs.  Give  me  the  coat." 

Strutting  up  and  down  the  shop  as  she  talked,  she  was  a 
queer  enough  little  figure  in  the  boy's  clothes,  for  being  a 
woman  child  she  of  course  swaggered  as  every  woman  wear- 
ing man's  garments  has  swaggered  since  the  world  began. 

She  looked  smaller  and  slighter  than  usual,  and  carried 
her  dark  head  extremely  erect. 

"  No  one  will  ever  know,"  she  declared.  "  Look  at  the 
parrots,  not  one  of  them  recognises  me!  " 

Then,  suddenly,  she  stopped,  her  face  white  with  tragedy. 
"  My  hair,"  she  cried. 

"  Gia."  The  old  woman  raised  her  hands  helplessly. 
"Of  course!" 

Then  she  took  from  the  drawer  an  ancient  astrakhan  cap 
worn  bare  in  places  like  a  mangy  dog. 

"  Let  us  try,  my  dear " 

The  long  dark  pigtail  pinned  on  the  top  of  her  head,  th« 


14  BEECHY 

cap  jammed  tightly  down  to  the  nape  of  her  neck,  the  danger 
seemed  very  well  averted. 

"  No  one  will  know,"  declared  Agnese,  "  but  don't  fight 
and  take  it  off!" 

Beechy  threw  back  her  head  with  a  jerk,  and  made  a 
little  clucking  sound  that  meant  disdain. 

"  Not  I !  Well,  thank  you,  Agnese,  a  million  thanks  to 
you.  I  will  go  now.  Oh,  do  you  know  where  the  theatre 
is?  " 

"  Yes, — just  off  the  Corso,  near  the  via  Mer  lana, — near 
the  Church  of  Santa  Lucia, — can  you  find  it  ?  " 

Beechy  had  only  once  or  twice  in  her  life  been  more  than 
a  stone's  throw  from  the  Street  of  the  Violin,  but  in  big 
enterprises  the  small  difficulties  contingent  on  them  are  easily 
disregarded. 

"  Of  course  I  can  find  it.  Good-bye,  and  once  again,  a 
thousand  thanks  to  you." 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  STORY  OF  A  REHEARSAL 

IMBECILES,  children  of  'dogs,  animals  all  of  you,  do 
you  call  that  singing?     Here  am  I  wasting  my  life, 
my  nerves,  my  genius,  trying  to  beat  into  your  stupid 
heads — ah,  my  God,  what  a  life !  " 

Maestro  Checco  Landucci  banged  his  baton  down  on  the 
music  stool  and  groaned  loudly,  while  the  gentlemen  of  the 
chorus  stared  at  him  with  unmoved  and  uninterested  faces. 

The  theatre,  small  and  dingy,  was  dark  but  for  the  stage, 
and  two  boxes  where  some  friends  of  some  of  the  artists  were 
sitting  chatting. 

In  the  orchestra  the  various  masters,  including  the  mas- 
ter of  the  drum,  wore  their  hats,  and  most  of  them  their 
coats,  for  the  place  was  cold. 

It  was  a  sordid,  unbeautiful  scene,  but  such  as  it  was  it 
stamped  itself  indelibly  on  Beatrice  Cavaleone's  mind  as  she 
stood,  quite  unobserved,  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

Not  knowing  where  to  go  she  had  managed  to  slip  by  an 
old  man  who  was  sweeping  the  foyer,  and  found  her  way 
in  alone. 

Small,  alert,  keen-eyed,  she  saw  it  all;  the  strange  effect 
of  the  lighted  stage  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness;  the  poorly 
dressed,  huddled  chorus-people,  the  prompter  half  out  of  his 
box  scolding  vigorously,  the  roughly  set  scenery  with  the 
long  flight  of  steps  at  the  top  of  which  Micaela,  a  very  small 
woman  in  a  huge  be-feathered  hat,  stood  talking  to  the  bari- 
tone. 

15 


16  BEECHY 

In  the  orchestra  the  patches  of  white  light  against  which 
were  etched  in  sharp  relief  the  bored,  unshaven  faces  of  the 
musicians,  the  half -hysterical  director  waving  his  arms 
furiously.  And  in  the  air,  sniffed  at  rapturously  by  Beechy's 
small  nostrils,  the  indescribable,  intoxicating  stage  odour 
that,  composed  of  a  hundred  different  things,  is  the  same  in 
all  the  theatres  of  the  world. 

"  Now  then,  my  children,  commence  again,"  went  on  the 
director,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone, — "  '  Sulla  piazza  si 
schiamozza' — try  to  get  it  right,  or  you  will  break  my 
heart " 

The  doleful  looking  men,  their  hands  for  the  most  part 
buried  in  their  pockets,  responded  without  enthusiasm,  Mor- 
ales inspecting  his  face  in  a  small  pocket  mirror  as  he  sang. 

"  Now,  then,  Celli, — come  on,  come  on,"  bawled  the  di- 
rector, "  and  don't  fall  down  again " 

"  For  Charity's  sake  " — began  the  stage  manager,  as  the 
diminutive  Micaela  started  down  the  steps,  but  the  director 
waved  him  into  obscurity.  "  Louder,  Signorina, — louder  or 
else  make  faces  so  they  can  see  that  you  are  singing !  " 

"  '  Who  ?  I  seek  a  brigadier,'  "  piped  the  girl,  her  white 
gloved  hands  making  an  ugly  spot  on  her  dark  skirt  as  she 
sawed  them  up  and  down. 

Morales,  wasting  not  his  hour,  urged  her  to  await  the 
absent  Jose  but  the  timid  creature  refused,  flatting  deplor- 
ably, and  skipped  coyly  away. 

Beechy  stood  transfixed,  her  head  swimming  with  emo- 
tional delight,  but  her  ear  pierced  by  the  well-brought-up 
maiden's  final  g  natural. 

Then,  at  last  the  stage  manager,  an  Olympian  person  with 
a  flower  in  his  coat  and  an  endearing  manner,  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  wings  and  out  came  a  stream  of  little 


THE  STORY  OF  'A   REHEARSAL          17 

boys,  marching  prou'dly,  piping  wildly.  "  Uno  due,  uno 
due,"  roared  the  stage  manager,  "Keep  time! — Look  out  or 
you'll  fall  down " 

Down  the  steps  they  came,  little  boys  in  long  trousers, 
little  boys  in  knickerbockers,  little  boys  in  rough  capes,  little 
boys  with  mufflers,  but  all  little  boys  pinched  with  cold  and 
poverty  and  forgetting  everything  in  the  truly  little  boyian 
joy  of  marching  to  music! 

"Stop,  stop,  stop!" 

The  baton  crashed  more  loudly  than  ever  on  the  iron 
music  stand  and  the  director  pulled  his  black  hair  into  a  tall 
peak  that  promptly  fell  over  his  brow  in  a  manner  most 
artistic. 

"  What  are  you  singing?  What  do  I  hear?  Have  you 
no  mercy  on  me?  God  forgive  you  all,  you  are  murdering 
me." 

"  Come,  come,  Maestro,"  protested  the  stage  manager, 
still  marking  time  in  a  bewitching  way  with  his  patent- 
leathered  feet,  "  it  isn't  that  bad !  " 

"  Dear  Thou,"  retorted  the  director,  more  enraged  than 
ever,  "  it  is  well  known  that  thou  art  no  artist.  If  thou 
wert,  thy  nerves " 

"  In  Heaven's  name  let's  get  on,"  put  in  unexpectedly  a 
woman's  voice,  "  your  temper  is  impossible,  Landucci." 

"  Dearest  Giacomini,  wilt  thou  have  the  inexpressible  kind- 
ness to  mind  thine  own  business?  Now  then,  boys,  begin 
over." 

But  the  boys,  while  they  marched  well,  could  not  sing, 
poor  little  wretches,  for  the  excellent  reasons  that  the  music 
is  written  in  an  almost  impossibly  high  pitch  and  that  there 
was  not  a  voice  among  them. 

Suddenly  the  director  flung  down  his  baton  and  tearing 


i8  BEECHY 

his  hair  wildly  turned  round  and  gazed  into  the  empty 
theatre.  "  You,  Rinaldi,"  he  called,  his  voice  choking  with 
rage,  "  tell  me  how  can  I  bear  this !  " 

Rinaldi,  one  of  the  men  in  the  box,  who  was  smoking, 
gave  a  great  laugh.  "  Care,  Maestro,"  he  returned,  sym- 
pathetically, "  don't  ask  me.  What  you  need  is  voices." 

Landucci  with  a  shrug  and  a  huge  sigh,  was  about  to  turn 
when  he  caught  sight  of  a  boy  standing  alone  in  the  dusk. 

"A  boy!  "  he  cried,  "  another  boy!  Have  you  a  voice? 
Do  you  belong  to  the  chorus?  " 

"  All  the  boys  are  here,  imbecile,"  bellowed  the  stage 
manager,  "  drop  your  nonsense,  Landucci."  But  to  his 
amazement  out  of  the  darkness  came  a  small  clear  voice. 

"  I  have  a  beautiful  voice,"  it  said,  "  and  I  can  sing. 
How  can  I  get  up  ?  " 

Signora  Giacomini,  the  Carmen,  who  was  sitting  in  one 
corner  of  the  stage  sewing,  leaned  over  the  footlights. 

"  This  way,  little  dear,"  she  called.  "  Give  him  a  lift,  one 
of  you  maestri." 

So  thus  it  was  that  Beatrice  Cavaleone  was  lifted  up  to 
the  stage  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  appearance,  by  the 
master  of  the  trombone. 

"Isn't  he  a  dear?"  "How  pretty."  "What  lovely 
eyes."  To  such  remarks  Beechy's  ears  were  calmly  deaf. 
She  had  marked  the  stage  manager  for  her  own,  as  a  person 
in  authority,  and  went  straight  to  him,  her  cold  little  hands 
in  her  jacket  pockets. 

"  How  do  you  do,"  she  began  politely,  "  will  you  have 
them  play  it  over  once  more?  I  have  heard  it  before,  so 
once  will  do " 

Everybody  laughed,  at  which  she  gave  a  glance  round  her. 

Landucci  now  laughing  loudly,  raised  his  baton  and  all 


THE   STORY   OF  A    REHEARSAL  19 

the  little  boys  began  marking  time  with  that  unfeigned  joy 
that  in  every  representation  of  "  Carmen  "  that  has  ever  been 
given,  has  characterised  the  little  boys. 

Beechy  listened  to  the  music,  her  brows  drawn  together, 
her  lower  lip  thrust  out.  When  the  music  ceased  she 
nodded  to  the  director.  "  Va  bene,"  she  said,  and  it  did  go 
well. 

Singing  with  no  words,  her  high  clear  pipe  rose  like  that 
of  a  bird  well  above  the  feeble  shrilling  of  her  companions; 
and  as  always  happens  in  chorus-singing,  the  inefficient 
singers  followed  the  efficient  one,  so  the  result  was  satisfac- 
tory, even  to  the  difficult  Landucci. 

"Bravo,  bravo!" 

"  What  is  thy  name,  Carino?  " 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,"  suggested  Carmen,  looking  up  from 
her  sewing.  She  did  not  particularly  care  to  have  Beechy 
kiss  her,  but  trusted  that  her  request  might  annoy  the 
director. 

Beechy  stood  still,  smiling  to  herself,  unheeding  because 
not  hearing,  the  chatter.  She  had  heard  the  call  of  the 
theatre. 

Then  Don  Jose,  a  pallid  youth  in  a  brown  bowler,  and 
Morales  had  their  little  dialogue,  and  then  once  more  the 
enraptured  albeit  blue  with  cold  little  boys  burst  out  again 
in  a  song,  and  swaggering  violently  were  led  up  the  steps 
and  off  to  the  right. 

Carmen,  who  was  pleased  with  the  world  because  her 
baby  was  better,  because  she  herself  had  just  annoyed  the 
director  who  was  in  love  with  her,  and  because  Micaela  had 
no  voice  whatsoever,  listened  to  the  cigarette-girls'  chorus 
and  Landucci's  vituperations  of  these  ladies,  with  much  sat- 
isfaction. The  sordidly  dressed,  dull  looking  women,  as 


20  BEECHY 

much  unlike  dashing  bewitching  cigarette  girls  as  so  many 
nuns  would  have  been,  stood  huddled  together,  their  heads 
wrapped  for  the  most  part  in  knitted  scarfs,  waving  large 
red  hands  from  time  to  time,  turning  bored  eyes  on  the 
frantic  little  man  with  the  baton. 

He  scolded  so  much  and  so  vehemently  that  he  had  lost  all 
effect  on  them. 

"  '  O'er  our  senses,'  "  the  women  bleated, 

"'Joy  is  stealing'"— 

Carmen  looked  up  suddenly  as  a  merry  bubbling  laugh 
startled  her.  Beechy  stood  by  her,  having  come  quietly 
down  the  steps  under  the  stage  manager's  very  nose,  unseen 
by  that  great  man. 

"  One  would  say,  wouldn't  one,  Signora,  that  joy  was 
stealing  o'er  their  senses?"  exclaimed  the  child. 

Signora  Giacomini  rose.  "  You  funny  little  boy !  I 
must  go  now " 

And  off  she  ran,  leaving  Beechy  alone  but  without  em- 
barrassment. 

While  Carmen  gave  her  impressions  of  Love  to  an  unin- 
terested crowd,  Beechy  sat  and  studied  the  scene. 

To  him  who  has  not  the  stage  instinct;  to  whom 
the  very  word  stage  does  not  bring  a  kind  of  secret  vibration 
of  soul,  the  most  perfect  and  modern  of  theatres  can  say 
nothing. 

Whereas  to  him  who  has  the  stage  instinct,  to  whom  the 
theatre-magic  is  a  real  thing,  as  real  as  a  vivid  dream  (and 
everyone  knows  that  nothing  in  real  life  is  as  vivid  as  some 
dreams),  the  poorest,  dirtiest  theatre  in  the  world,  even  a 
booth  pitched  at  some  country  fair,  contains  all  the  magic, 
all  the  wonder,  all  the  queer  unrealness  that  is  so  much 
more  real  than  the  richest,  fullest  outside  life. 


THE  STORY  OF  A   REHEARSAL          21 

So  Beechy  had  found  in  the  small  and  miserable  theatre, 
the  home  of  her  mind. 

Someone  gave  her  a  bit  of  chocolate,  someone  else  wrapped 
round  her  a  dirty  pink  shawl  for  it  was  growing  colder. 
The  Remendado  came  at  length  and  sat  down  by  the  child. 
He  was  a  tall  man  with  an  egg-shaped  head  and  only  one 
little  ringer. 

"  You  have  a  good  voice,  little  boy,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  Don't  ever  try  to  sing  loud,  or  you'll  spoil  it.  I  hope," 
he  sighed,  "  that  it  may  be  a  tenor.  Only  tenors  count, 
really." 

Beechy  nodded.     She  wished  he  would   go  away. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  she  asked. 

"  II  tenore,"  explained  the  Remendado  with  gloom.  The 
tenor  had  not  much  voice,  but  he  sang  well.  Beechy  loved 
the  duet,  she  loved  it  all.  Perhaps  best  of  all  she  loved  her 
own  little  legs  in  their  grey  trousers.  It  was  great  fun  be- 
ing a  boy.  It  was  delightful  having  one's  legs  free,  hav- 
ing pockets  wherein  to  bury  one's  cold  hands. 

She  liked  it  all.  The  stage-manager  came  and  asked 
her  her  name. 

"  Beechy "  she  stammered,  terrified. 

"  Bici,  oh."  He  wrote  it  down,  thinking  it  was  her 
surname,  and  went  away  telling  her  to  come  again  the  next 
day.  Time  went  on  and  on. 

Signora  Giacomini,  walking  through  her  part,  using  only 
a  little  of  her  rather  worn  voice,  reached  the  last  act  in 
safety,  and  then  suddenly  in  the  scene  with  the  desperate 
Jose,  broke  into  real  song,  real  acting.  The  tenor  stared, 
but  took  her  cue,  and  as  they  both  knew  their  parts  the 
scene  rushed  on  to  its  frightful  ending  as  if  inspired. 

"  Carmen — io  t'amo " 


22  BEECHY 

Down  came  the  knife,  down  fell  the  woman,  and  in  the 
cry  of  the  man  and  a  crash  of  the  music,  it  was  over. 

"  Brava,  Giacomini, — brava,  bravissimi  to  you  both !  " 

She  rose,  wiping  the  dust  from  her  skirt  and  breathing 
hard. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  was  a  fool 
to  tire  myself  out  so,  but " 

"What  made  you,  so  suddenly?"  queried  the  Dancaiie. 

For  answer  she  pointed  to  Beechy  who  stood  with  her 
two  hands  clasped  hard  to  her  breast. 

"  He  made  me,"  returned  the  soprano,  "  just  look  at  his 
eyes!" 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  JOY  OF  BEING  A  BOY 

WHEN  one  has  been  a  member  of  a  distinctly  in- 
ferior, though  in  many  ways  favoured  sex,  and 
then  by  a  wave  of  a  wand,  becomes  that  king 
of  creation,  a  Boy, — the  effect  is  dazzling. 

And  if  that  hypothetical  critic,  the  fly  on  the  wall,  had 
been  there  to  observe  the  effect  on  Beechy,  of  her  change  of 
costume,  he  would,  were  he  an  astute  fly,  have  foreseen  for 
her  a  variety  of  things  not  obviously  the  outcome  of  her 
position  in  life. 

Not  the  mere  fact  that  she  walked  precisely  like  a  some- 
what swaggering  boy,  and  that  each  of  her  attitudes  was 
in  its  essentials  quite  ungirlish,  but  the  very  expression  of 
her  face  had  changed.  Wildly  excited  by  her  experiences 
at  the  theatre,  her  original  object,  money,  quite  lost  in  the 
incidental  joys  appertaining  to  it,  the  child  hurried  back  to 
her  own  street,  whistling  loudly  a  scrap  of  the  music  that 
was  whirling  in  her  brain: 

"Aha  la,  chi  vi  la 
Dragon  d'Alcate " 

It  was  nearly  dark,  and  to  her  the  homely  poetry  of  the 
streets  of  the  poor  at  the  hour  when  work  ceases,  and  lights 
are  lit,  was  always  to  appeal  loudly. 

Work  people  loitered  along,  warm  red  light  streamed  out 
into  the  blackness  from  opening  doors,  a  cheery  smell  of 

23 


24  BEECHY 

frying  oil  and  garlic  met  her  eager  little  nose  from  time 


to  time. 


'Alta  la,  chi  vi  la 
Dragon  d'Alcala!" 


A  slim  youth,  standing  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  an  upper 
window  of  a  well-to-do  house  not  far  from  the  Street  of  the 
Violin,  turned  as  the  whistler  drew  near. 

"  Hello  you —little  boy " 

Beechy  stopped  with  an  impertinent  upward  jerk  of  her 
chin  as  foreign  to  her  nature  as  were  the  trousers  she  wore 
to  her  legitimate  costume.  "  Want  to  earn  fifty  centimes  ?  " 

The  amount  named  was  staggering,  but  Beechy  nodded 
hastily.  "  Yes " 

It  was  all  a  part  of  the  wonderful  day  that  a  mystery 
should  at  that  dream-hour  project  itself  into  her  life. 
From  behind  his  back  the  young  man  produced  a  bunch 
of  chrysanthemums.  "  See  that  window?  " 

"  Si,  Signore." 

"Well— can  you  read?" 

"  Of  course  I  can." 

"  Well,  take  these  flowers  up  to  the  third  floor,  and  ring 
at  Dr.  Mincotti's  door.  When  the  maid  opens  the  door, 
ask  to  see  the — the  Signorina  Elvira.  Then — give  her 
these." 

Beechy  nodded  eagerly.     "  Va  bene,  va  bene." 

From  his  pocket  the  young  man  took  a  letter  which  he 
folded  very  small. 

"  Can  I  trust  you?  Yes,  I  think  I  can.  See,  some  day 
you  too  will  be  sending  letters  to  some  Signorina " 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing  and  the  young  man  drew  back 
angrily. 


THE   JOY  OF  BEING  A   BOY  25 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  she  added  hastily.  "  I  do  understand. 
I  am  to  take  the  letter  and  give  it  to  the  Signorina  Elvira 
without  anyone  else's  seeing.  Is  that  right?  " 

The  Italian  had  nothing  but  admiration  for  her  ready 
comprehension. 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  good  boy.  And — she  may  give  you  a 
letter  for  me — I  will  wait  here " 

Beechy  touched  her  cap  dashingly.     "  Va  bene." 

The  stairs  were  of  stone,  very  cold,  and  but  poorly 
lighted,  but  in  comparison  with  the  ones  the  child  knew,  very 
grand. 

She  raced  up  in  one  breath,  the  letter  in  her  trousers 
pocket,  and  gave  a  faint  ring  at  the  bell.  After  a  long 
pause  the  door  opened  and  a  tiny  maid-servant  with  a  large 
wart  on  her  nose,  appeared. 

"  I  have  nothing  for  you,"  she  snapped,  and  was  about  to 
shut  the  door  when  Beechy  thrust  the  flowers  nearly  into 
her  face.  "  I  want  to  see  the  Signorina  Elvira,  please. 
These  are  for  her." 

"Well,  you  can't  see  her,  then.     I'll  take  them." 

"  No.     I  want  to  see  her  myself." 

But  the  maid  with  the  intimate  knowledge  of  all  that 
concerned  her  master's  family  that  characterises  Italian 
servants  of  her  class,  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  Of  course  they're  from  the  Signor  Paolino.  Well,  you 
may  tell  him  that  the  Signore  Dottore  is  not  going  to  let 
the  Signorina  Elvira  have  anything  more  to  do  with  him, 
so  he  may  as  well  take  his  flowers  to  someone  else." 

It  was  discouraging,  but  Beechy  was  fearless,  and  in  a 
flash  saw  what  her  best  line  of  argument  was. 

A  door  at  the  end  of  the  narrow  red  tiled  passage  was 
open,  and  beyond  it  was  firelight,  a  red  sofa,  a  gilded  table. 


26  BEECHY 

Before  the  maid  could  raise  a  finger,  Beechy  had  dashed 
down  the  passage  and  into  the  gorgeous  room  where  sat  a 
girl  of  twenty  with  a  very  elaborately  dressed  head  of  hair, 
absently  stroking  a  cat  that  was  sitting  on  her  lap. 

"Signora  Elvira?" 

"  Yes." 

Before  the  indignant  maid  had  reached  the  door  the  letter 
was  lying  between  the  cat  and  the  girl's  lap,  and  Beechy 
was  holding  out  the  flowers. 

"  These  are  for  you,  Signorina." 

"  Ma  Signorina,  this  impertinent  little  guttersnipe " 

"  Go  away  Rosa, — get  me  a  penny  for  the  little  boy ;  he 
has  brought  me  some  flowers  I  ordered  for  Papa's  birth- 
day." 

Rosa  departed,  crestfallen,  and  the  ready  liar,  to  whom 
all  Beechy's  admiration  went  out,  quite  untempered  by  dis- 
approval, in  a  gust  of  enthusiasm,  took  from  her  pocket  a 
smooth  pink  envelope  and  crushed  it  into  the  messenger's 
hand. 

"  You  are  a  dear  little  boy,"  she  said,  "  a  good  little  boy. 
What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Here  is  the  penny,  Signorina,"  interrupted  Rosa,  re- 
turning. "  Shall  I  put  the  flowers  in  the  Signor  Dottore's 
room?  They  will  be  a  delightful  surprise  for  him,  after 
your  sulking  all  day  with  him." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Rosa.  Good-bye,  piccino.  I  am 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  flowers." 

Beechy  raced  down  the  stairs  and  gave  the  letter  to  the 
impatient  lover  who  duly  rewarded  her  with  fifty  centimes, 
an  extravagantly  large  sum  for  so  simple  an  errand,  but 
which,  in  the  expansion  of  his  satisfied  heart,  he  would  will- 
ingly have  increased  to  a  lira. 


THE  JOY  OF  BEING  A  BOY  27 

When  his  eulogium  of  Beechy's  genius  and  virtue  had 
ended,  he  added,  "  I  might  need  you  again.  Where  can  I 
find  you?  " 

Beechy  hesitated,  and  then,  with  the  confidence  of  the 
born  persuader  that  he  can  persuade  away  any  difficulties 
that  might  arise,  she  answered: 

"At  Carelli's  bird-shop,  22  Via  del  Violino.  Ask  for 
Bici." 

The  young  man  made  a  mental  note  of  the  address  and 
Beechy  sped  away  to  persuade  Agnese  not  to  betray  her. 

"Well,  and  did  you  sing?  "  the  old  woman  asked,  look- 
ing up  from  the  soup  she  was  making  over  her  absurd  little 
stove  in  her  dark  living-room. 

"  Yes,  I  sang — and  there  were,  oh,  lots  of  gentlemen  play- 
ing instruments,  too  beautiful.  And  some  of  them  sang 
alone,  and  some  together,  and  one  gentleman  killed  a  lady 
with  a  long  knife." 

"Holy  Madonna!"  The  old  woman  turned,  her  jaw 
dropped  in  horror. 

Beechy  laughed  merrily.  "  Not  really,  you  know.  In 
the  play.  And,  only  guess,  thou! — Simeone  didn't  know 
me,  and  they  all  call  me  little  boy!  Also  I  earned  half  a 
lira  carrying  some  flowers  and  a  letter  to  a  young  lady. 
There  was,"  she  added,  "  a  golden  table  in  the  room !  " 

"A  golden  table!" 

"  Yes.     It  was  a  wonderful  palazzo." 

While  she  got  into  her  own  clothes  again  her  tongue 
flew  on,  recounting  in  detail  all  the  wonders  of  the  Signorina 
Elvira's  salon.  The  room  was  in  reality  a  very  tasteless, 
gaudy,  middle-class  Roman  sitting-room,  and  her  inexperi- 
enced imagination  transformed  it  into  a  dream  of  fairy- 
land, but  allowing  for  this,  the  accuracy  with  which  she 


28  BEECHY 

described  the  things  she  had  seen  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  and  therefore  at  the  most  six  minutes,  was  remarkable. 

"There  was  a  glass  box  with  the  loveliest  dead  birds 
on  a  tree;  and  gold  chairs  and  a  piano  with  a  carpet  on  it 
with  ladies  dancing  in  a  meadow  painted  on  it — or  sewed 
into  it — and  looking  glasses  with  butterflies  painted  on  the 
frame  and  one  on  the  glass;  and  red  chairs  and  the  most 
beautiful  pictures,  one  of  a  lake  with  boats  on  it,  and  one 
of  a  girl  combing  her  hair  in  an  open  window.  And  the 
curtains  were  lace,  with  flowers  in  the  lace,  and  the  lamp 
had  red  silk  over  it,  so  the  light  was  red.  And  Miss  El- 
vira was  so  beautiful,  her  face  very  white,  and  her  hair 
oiled,  and  she  smelt  of  vanilla." 

"  Well,  well,  well,  what  a  magpie  you  are,  to  be  sure  5 
Here,  have  some  soup,  my  dear,  and  rest  your  tongue  or  it 
will  drop  out." 

As  she  ate  the  very  welcome  soup,  Beechy  unfolded  her 
scheme,  which  developed  as  she  unfolded  it,  of  being,  in  the 
future,  as  much  as  possible  a  boy. 

"You  will,  I  am  sure,  lend  me  the  clothes,  and  I  will 
sing  every  day,  and  I  can  earn  money.  Oh !  "  suddenly 
she  rose.  "God  forgive  me,  I  had  quite  forgotten  Papa!  " 

Horrified  by,  but  not  at  all  ashamed  of,  this  fact,  she 
embraced  old  Agnese,  unpinned  her  pigtail,  and  scampered 
up  the  street  homewards. 

The  great  room  was  quite  dark,  and  the  sick  man  asleep. 
Signora  Marianna  had  gone  home.  Silently,  moving  with 
the  stillness  characteristic  of  her,  Beechy  lighted  the  lamp, 
blew  the  dying  coals  in  the  brazier  into  a  comfortable  glow, 
and  made  her  humble  preparations  for  supper. 

When  her  father  at  last  awoke  she  was  sitting  curled  up 
in  his  big  chair,  sound  asleep,  the  grey  kitten  in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  VI 
AT  THE  Two  QUEENS 

MAESTRO  LANDUCCI,  the  terror  of  the  artists, 
the  most  honest  of  men,  yet  lived  a  double  life. 
This  has  happened  before  and  to  many  people, 
for  after  all,  men  are  the  playthings  of  circumstance,  and 
circumstance  was  too  much  for  Landucci  as  it  has  often 
been  for  his  betters.  Sensitive  tenors  and  mezzo-soprani 
trembled  under  the  lash  of  his  meridional  tongue  (baritones 
and  soprani  are  of  sterner  stuff,  for  soprani  are  hard  to  find, 
and  fully  appreciate  and  even  misuse  their  power;  whereas 
tenors  having  always  much  of  the  woman  about  them  are 
things  of  nerves  and  moods,  and,  so,  thin  in  the  skin). 

Thus,  at  the  Leopardi,  Landucci's  power  of  invective 
made  him  a  creature  to  be  disliked  if  not  feared,  but  at  home 
— at  the  Hotel  delle  Due  Regine,  near  the  Pantheon,  for 
the  director  was  a  Calabrian  and  so  was  Landucci — things 
were  different.  For  Signora  Landucci  was  to  her  husband 
in  the  matter  of  temper  and  what  the  simple  cockney  simply 
calls  "  language,"  as  wine  to  water,  as  a  blazing  tropic  sun 
to  the  languid  northern  moon. 

Signora  Landucci  was  a  small  dark  woman,  in  looks 
what  the  Italians  call  "  dry,"  and  she  had  a  heavy  mous- 
tache. 

She  was  blessed  with  unfailing  appetites  for  food  and  for 
gossip,  with  a  thousand  lire  a  year  of  her  very  own  (a  tre- 
mendous power  against  her  poverty-stricken  husband)  and 


30  BEECHY 

against  him,  too,  she  held  the  strongest  of  weapons,  the  fact 
that  in  marrying  him  she  had  married  beneath  her.  Her 
father  had  had  a  small  hotel  in  Pontesuaggio,  a  town  built 
on  a  promontory  overhanging  the  sea  near  Reggio  in  Cala- 
bria. 

Whereas  Landucci's  father  had  been  a  mere  railway- 
porter  and  Landucci,  although  an  artist — elastic  word  in 
dear  Italy — was  also  a  pauper.  A  more  miserable  man  than 
the  present  director  of  the  Orchestra  of  the  Teatro  Leo- 
pardi  never  lived. 

About  a  week  after  Beechy's  unceremonious  debut  into 
theatrical  life,  Landucci  went  home  to  the  Inn  of  the  Two 
Queens  after  the  last  rehearsal.  He  was  tired,  but  rather 
pleased  with  himself,  for  he  had  won  hands  down  in  a  battle 
with  the  tenor,  who  had  insisted  on  singing  the  Romance 
of  the  Flower  much  slower  than  it  had  ever  been  sung 
before,  and  when  Landucci  had  broken  his  baton,  in  a  fit  of 
rage,  the  stage  manager  had  taken  his  side,  routed  the  tenor, 
and  at  the  same  time  begged  Landucci  for  his  own  sake  to 
try  to  control  his  temper. 

This,  to  the  hen-pecked  husband,  was  as  balm  on  a  raw 
wound,  as  many  will  understand.  So  although  the  Tra- 
montana  was  blowing  germ-laden  dust  fiercely  through  the 
stony  streets,  and  though  his  head  ached,  Landucci  was 
fairly  happy  as  he  made  his  way  past  the  Pantheon  and  up 
the  narrow  lane  that  led  to  his  hotel. 

Italian  life  is  so  much  written  about  and  so  curiously 
poetised  and  de-poetised  by  the  writers  that  one  some- 
times wonders  that  no  one  protests.  Mr.  Stopford  and  Mr. 
Willoughby  both  poetise,  but  Mr.  Stopford 's  keen  sense 
of  humour  as  well  as  the  intelligent  experience  of  many 
years,  saves  him  from  misunderstanding  this  delightful  race. 


'AT   THE   TWO   QUEENS  31 

Mr.  Wflloughby's  Italians  are  charming,  and  human, 
and  beautifully  explained,  but  they  are  simply  people,  not 
essentially  Italians,  and  possibly  this  is  because  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  himself  is  essentially  English.  Easier,  perhaps,  for 
the  camel  to  pass  through  the  needle's  eye  than  for  a  full- 
blooded  Briton  really  to  understand  full-blooded  Italians. 

The  two  races  reason  from  quite  opposed  standpoints,  and 
miracle  of  miracles,  such  a  thing  as  an  Italian  snob  does 
not  exist. 

This  last  of  course  means  that  the  difference  between  the 
Italian  aristocrat  and  the  Italian  peasant,  is  infinitely  less 
than  that  between  the  English  aristocrat  and  the  English 
peasant. 

The  Italian  ploughboy  will  greet  you  with  a  great 
courtesy,  or  as  great  intentional  rudeness,  as  will  the  Italian 
nobleman.  Shy  uncouthness  is  unknown  in  the  peninsula, 
— as  unknown  as  abstract  Horror  of  a  Lie. 

There  are,  to  Italians,  two  kinds  of  lies.  Bad  lies  and 
good  lies.  And  good  men  tell  only  good  lies.  That  is  all, 
and  it  is  simple. 

As  to  women — ask  your  most  cherished,  your  most  cul- 
tured and  cosmopolitan  Italian  friend,  about  truth-telling 
women.  His  answer,  or  his  shrug,  will  be  illuminating  to 
you. 

So  in  describing  the  Landucci  menage,  up  three  pairs  of 
dark  stairs  at  the  Two  Queens,  I  am  describing  any  un- 
evenly-matched Italian  couple.  And  this  in  spite  of  the 
well-known  fact  that  no  Italian  is  content  to  be  an  Italian; 
he  is  a  Roman  or  a  Torinese  or  a  Neapolitan — as  the  case 
may  be,  right  through  the  scale,  down  to  the  peasant  who 
having  no  town  to  claim,  claims  his  province. 

And  if  this  is  so  to-day,  how  much  more  was  it  so  in  the 


32  BEECHY 

days  of  which  I  write,  when  Italy  as  a  kingdom  had  existed 
for  only  a  few  years. 

Maestro  Landucci,  his  high  coat  collar  pulled  well  up 
round  his  ears  against  the  piercing  wind,  hurried  through 
the  streets  thinking  of  his  dinner,  for  he  was  hungry  and 
had  worked  hard  all  day. 

Dinner  and  bed  were  good  things  to  be  counted  on,  and 
it  might  be,  as  well,  that  Luisa's  temper  would  be  at  its 
best.  Hope  dies  hard. 

The  Two  Queens  is  a  very  old  hostelry  situated  in  a 
courtyard.  On  the  ground  floor  are  three  large  rooms  de- 
voted to  the  restaurant  service,  high  frescoed  dingy  rooms 
packed  with  small  tables  and  shiny  wooden  chairs.  Up- 
stairs is  the  hotel  itself,  a  congeries  of  tortuous  passages 
and  rooms  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  for  the  Two  Queens  has 
two  entrances,  and  has  gradually  come  to  comprise  three 
old  palaces. 

The  Signora  Campi,  the  proprietress,  a  monstrously  fat 
old  woman  with  several  velvety  brown  moles  on  her  silky 
pink  face,  looked  up  from  her  chair  in  the  bureau  as  Lan- 
ducci passed. 

"  Good  evening,  Maestro." 

"  Good  evening,  Signora.     My  wife " 

"  The  Signora  is  upstairs.     And  the  opera,  how  goes  it  ?  " 

Landucci  unbuttoned  his  shabby  coat  as  he  answered  with 
despairing  eyes.  "  Dear  You  "  (this  does  not  by  any  means 
signify  "  You  dear  ").  "  What  is  one  to  do  with  a  band  of 
imbeciles, — of  born  idiots?  They  prance  and  make  gri- 
maces, but  sing? — Madonna  Santa,  who  could  sing  without 
a  voice,  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  The  Giacomini's  not  so  bad,"  criticised  the  old  woman 
shrewdly. 


AT   THE    TWO    QUEENS  33 

"  No.  But  her  day  was  fifteen  years  ago,  and  the  tenor, 
if  he  ever  has  a  day,  will  have  it  when  ten  more  years  have 
passed.  He  is  a  baby,  a  green  baby.  And  even  with 
double  soles  and  high  heels  he  reaches  only  to  the  lobe  of 
her  ear." 

"Such  is  life,  Maestro  Mio!  By  the  way,  a  little  boy 
has  been  here  this  evening  asking  for  you, — it  is  over  an 
hour  now  since  he  left " 

Landucci  pondered. 

"  A  little  boy?    Who  was  he?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  came  and  waited  some  time,  but  he 
would  not  tell  his  name.  A  slight  boy  with  blue  eyes  and 
— something  very  well-educated  and  refined  about  him." 

"Well  dressed?" 

"  Macchi,  no !  Poor  clothes,  grey — and  a  fur  cap — but 
for  all  that,  you  know,  something  very  gentlemanly " 

The  director's  face  lighted  up.  "  I  have  it !  It  must 
be  little  Bici.  A  boy  who  is  in  the  chorus.  His  father  has 
been  very  ill,  and  for  two  days  he  has  not  come.  I  wish 
I  had  seen  him " 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  several  men,  habitues 
of  the  restaurant  came  in,  and  he  went  on  upstairs. 

Signora  Luisa  was  high-busted,  and  small-waisted,  her 
that  poverty  of  languages  compelled  the  poor  man  to  call  by 
the  beautiful  name  of  home. 

Signora  Luisa  was  high-busted,  and  small  waisted,  her 
sharp  nose  was  red  at  the  point,  her  thin  lips  were  pale 
and  set:  a  shrew,  plainly  labelled  as  such. 

But  in  garb  she  was  rather  gorgeous,  for  her  red  blouse 
was  of  papery  satin  and  her  hat  was  covered  with  feathers 
of  the  same  hue. 

Most  people  have  if  no   really  good  qualities,  at  least 


34  BEECHY 

some  useful  small  charms.  A  dimple,  a  pretty  ankle,  has 
kept  men  from  utter  despair. 

But  Signora  Luisa  had  no  small  charms,  and  as  her  spirit 
was  low  and  her  temper  high,  she  was  very  dreadful  as  a 
wife. 

Landucci  spoke  to  her  softly  as  was  his  way,  and,  as  was 
hers,  she  stormed  at  him  for  being  late,  for  looking  tired, 
for  being  himself  and  not  someone,  anyone,  else. 

He  combed  his  tossed  hair  and  washed  his  hands  and  then 
they  went  down  to  dinner. 

At  a  small  table  in  the  corner  of  the  middle  room,  they 
ate.  First  raw  ham  and  salami  smelling  of  garlic.  Then 
a  mixed  fry,  bits  of  liver  and  tripe,  bits  of  brains,  bits  of 
artichoke,  all  fried  in  oil. 

Then  after  a  short,  sharp  dispute  they  ate  roast  veal 
and  spinach.  The  rneal  was  ending  more  or  less  peaceably 
with  hot  custard  in  coffee  cups,  when  Beechy  came  in,  and 
after  one  of  the  rapid,  comprehensive  glances  characteristic 
of  her,  made  straight  for  their  table. 

"  Oh,  Maestro,"  she  began,  plunging  at  once  into  the 
matter  of  her  coming.  "  My  father  is  dead !  " 

Signora  Luisa  drew  herself  up  in  a  way  meant  to  express 
fastidious  terror  of  the  public  mention  of  death. 

"  Thy  father  " — stammered  Landucci. 

"  Yes.  And — he  told  me  to  go  to  the  Commendatore 
and — I  don't  know  the  Commendatore's  name." 

Landucci  looked  nervously  at  his  wife. 

"Well,  well,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Bici,  Poverino! 
But  you  see,  my  Signora  and  I  are — we  are  dining." 

He  was  not  an  unkind  man  but  the  woman  had  made  a 
coward  of  him. 

Beechy  stared.     "  Dining — I  have  had  no  food  since  last 


AT   THE    TWO   QUEENS  35 

night,"  she  said  with  a  short  laugh.  Then  she  sat  down 
and  breaking  a  great  bit  of?  the  long  brown  loaf,  began  to 
eat. 

Her  face  was  very  white  and  her  eyes  swollen.  She  had, 
obviously,  cried  all  her  tears.  She  loved  her  father  and  he 
was  dead. 

But  she  herself  was  alive,  and  hungry,  and  although  she 
did  not  know  it,  she  was  an  artist,  and  to  artists  more  than 
to  other  people,  even,  is  self-preservation  the  first  law  of 
nature. 

She  had  formulated  no  theories  on  the  subject,  but  sub- 
consciously the  clearest  fact  in  the  universe  was,  rto  her, 
the  fact  of  her  own  small,  adrift,  hungry,  helpless  per- 
sonality. 

And  with  a  shrewdness  beyond  her  years  she  had  seized 
the  fact  that  the  irascible  director -was,  of  all  the  people  at 
the  theatre,  the  one  most  likely  to  be  kind  to  her. 

"  I  got  your  address  from  the  Hunchback,"  she  explained, 
"  and  I  came  this  afternoon,  but  you  were  out." 

"  What  do  y»u  want  ?  " 

The  words,  the  first  she  had  heard  Signora  Luisa  utter, 
fell  on  her  ear  like  something  cold. 

"  '  What  do  I  want  ?  ' '  For  a  second  the  child  studied 
the  woman's  face  and  then  with  something  like  the  ghost 
of  a  twinkle  of  amusement  in  her  own,  she  answered  in- 
nocently, "  Some  thick  soup,  please,  and  then — some  meat." 

Two  men  at  the  next  table  burst  out  laughing,  and 
Signora  Luisa's  thin  lips  narrowed  to  vanishing  point. 

"  Come,  Checco,"  she  said,  rising  suddenly,  "  I  won't 
want  any  coffee.  We  will  go  upstairs." 

But  Landucci  drew  a  long  breath  and  sat  still.  "  I — I 
will  come  up  immediately,  my  treasure,"  he  answered. 


36  BEECHY 

"  First  I  will  give  Bici  something — a  little — to  eat.  He — • 
has  just  lost  his  father,  poor  little  fellow." 

"  Bravo,"  murmured  one  of  the  listening  men. 

Signora  Luisa  turned  to  him.  "  Bravo  Lei"  she  snapped, 
"  badly  educated  one." 

After  which  extremely  insulting  remark  she  left  the  room. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,"  poor  Landucci  leaned  his  tired 
head  on  his  hand  for  a  second.  "  Oh,  my  God." 

Bici  frowned,  because  she  did  not  understand.  Then  as 
comprehension  came  to  her  she  observed  sententiously,  "  A 
bad  wife  is  worse  in  the  house  than  a  serpent.  Why  don't 
you  beat  her?  " 

"  Oh,  hush !  You  are  a  naughty  boy,"  protested  the  hor- 
rified director.  "  Luisa  is  not  a  bad  wife,  and — men  don't 
beat  women." 

" H'm"  returned  Beechy,  catching  the  eye  of  the  badly 
educated  man  who  was  drinking  black  wine. 

The  man  burst  out  laughing,  and  Landucci  banged  his 
hand  down  on  the  table. 

The  man's  laughter  went  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come. 

"  You  are  a  very  naughty  boy,"  Landucci  repeated,  "  and 
if  your  father  were  not  dead — a  very  naughty  boy!  " 

Beechy's  eyes  filled  again  with  tears.  Her  father  had 
been  to  her,  not  a  father,  but  a  friend  and  a  splendid  house- 
decoration.  But  she  had  loved  him  and  now  she  was 
ashamed  of  having  for  a  moment  quite  forgotten  him. 

fl  Cameriere!  Waiter!  Bring  this  boy  some  food  at 
once, — some  veal  and  potatoes.  Now,  Bici,  drink  some 
wine  and  water." 

Beechy  obeyed,  and  let  her  tears  dry  on  her  lashes  rather 
than  publicly  remove  them. 

"  Take  off  your  hat,"  suggested  Landucci. 


AT   THE    TWO   QUEENS  37 

"  No,  thank  you,  Maestro." 

After  a  pause  she  went  on.  "  They  buried  him  to-day. 
And — it  is  so  cold,"  she  shuddered. 

"  He  doesn't  feel  the  cold,  my  dear.     He  is  in  paradise." 

Orthodox  Catholic  children  are  duly  instructed  in  the 
theory  of  purgatory  and  paradise,  but  it  may  be  observed 
that  when  one  of  its  own  family  dies,  the  child  is  invariably 
told  that  that  particular  soul  has  gone  to  paradise. 

Beechy,  however,  had  a  touch  of  reasoning. 

"  He  was  very  good,  my  father,"  she  remarked,  attack- 
ing her  veal  more  wolfishly  than  was  quite  beautiful. 
"  Very  good.  Also,  he  was  a  gentleman.  But  no  doubt 
he  had  some  small  sins  on  his  soul.  Father  Amedeo  says 
everyone  has  except  the  blessed  saints,  so  I  fear  he  is  in 
purgatory  now,  just  for  a  little  while." 

Landucci  started. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  little  boy  you  are! " 

In  vino  veritas. 

The  wine  and  water  had  increased  in  the  child  a  delicious 
belief  in  the  kindness  of  everyone,  while  Landucci,  giver  of 
veal  and  potatoes,  appeared  to  her  a  philanthropist  worthy 
of  any  confidences. 

"  I  am  not  an  extraordinary  little  boy,"  she  whispered, 
leaning  towards  him,  her  glass  to  her  lips. 

"You  are  not  a — why  aren't  you?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  he  answered. 

She  drank  slowly,  her  lucent  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  "  I  am — an  extraordinary  little  girl." 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  EMPTY  CRADLE 

THERE  are  those  who  complain  that  Rome  is  no 
longer  Rome,  that  the  new,  stucco,  be-villa'd  quarter 
has  ruined  it;  that  the  horrors  of  busy  streets  like 
the  via  Nazionale  have  destroyed  the  charm  of  the  lovely 
place. 

These  disgusted  spirits,  like  most  other  people  in  the 
long  run,  get  what  they  deserve.  For  if  beauty,  a  more  or 
less  tangible  thing,  existent  at  least  to  a  great  degree,  under 
certain  fixed  laws,  is  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  how  much 
more  is  the  essence,  the  charm,  of  a  great  city?  Rome,  the 
Rome  of  modern  life  and  politics,  the  Rome  who  does  not 
scruple  to  use  the  base  of  her  ancient  columns  as  a  hoarding 
for  electioneering  bills  bidding  "  Romans,  elect  Giuseppe 
Ruffo,  the  Socialist  candidate,"  the  Rome  of  ugly  villas  and 
busy  thoroughfares,  of  trams  and  electricity,  of  vacuum- 
cleaners  and  motors  and  steeple  chases,  is  for  a'  that,  still 
Rome.  For  no  city  worth  loving  at  all  is  made  by  these 
external  things.  To  the  lover  of  cities,  each  one  has  its 
own  atmosphere,  what  may  be  called  its  psychic  smell.  And 
of  all  cities  in  the  world,  this  holds  good  of  Rome. 

There  is  an  early  morning  hour  when  the  streets  round 
Trajan's  forum  are  busy  only  with  the  humble  people  who 
live  there,  when  housewives  are  buying  their  stores  for  the 
day,  when  smooth-cheeked,  serious  men  on  their  way  to 
business,  pause  and  exchange  the  usual  morning  compli- 
ments; when  quiet  and  sunlight  lie  on  the  little  enclosure 

38 


THE  EMPTY  CRADLE  39 

whose  great  past  is  part  of  the  world,  when  the  broken 
shafts  and  the  mysterious  piles  of  stone  seem  to  brood  un- 
resentfully  on  what  has  been;  when  the  observant  lover  of 
the  spirit  of  Rome,  if  he  understands  Italian,  and  if  he  is  not 
aggressively  a  foreigner,  will,  walking  bookless  about  the 
ancient  quarter,  and  if  his  imagination  is  in  good  working 
order,  find  himself  back  in  the  years  himself  a  Roman,  un- 
derstanding the  Roman  mind,  feeling  in  his  breast  a  Roman 
heart.  These  moments  do  not  last;  they  are  as  fleeting  as 
they  are  wonderful ;  rainbows  across  the  dulness  of  ordinary 
hours. 

They  are  rare  for  they  are  not  waking  dreams,  they  are 
inspirations — flashes  from  the  sleeping  years — for  years  do 
not  die,  any  more  than  souls  do — and  they  cannot  be  ex- 
plained; they  can  only  be  felt. 

But  to  those  who  have  felt  them  the  cry  "  Rome  is  no 
longer  Rome"  is  the  chattering  of  malicious  monkeys,  the 
plaint  of  a  man  at  the  Aquarium,  who,  with  his  silly  nose 
glued  to  the  glass  behind  which  the  fish  swim,  declares  that 
there  is  no  water  because  he,  forsooth,  remains  dry! 

Peace  to  their  ashes,  for  so  far  as  Rome  is  concerned  they 
are  dead. 

Rome  with  all  her  ruins,  all  her  history,  is  alive  and  will 
live,  and  why  anyone  should  wish  her  to  have  remained 
early  Victorian,  a  kind  of  picnic  ground  for  the  romantic 
traveller,  is  incomprehensible,  and  argues  no  more  than 
narrow  heartedness  on  the  part  of  him  who  so  wishes. 

So  even  to-day,  I  maintain  those  who  deserve  it  find  the 
Dream-Rome  that  is  the  Real  Rome,  and  those  who  deserve 
an  inferior  Chicago  or  Liverpool,  will  find  even  that  in  the 
city  of  the  Caesars. 

So  Rome  endures. 


40  BEECHY 

In  Beatrice  Cavaleone's  childhood  the  kingdom  was  a 
new  kingdom,  Garibaldi's  work  was  but  newly  accom- 
plished, the  gallant  King,  ugliest  and  most  charming  of  men, 
was  but  recently  dead,  there  was  no  via  Nazionale,  no 
electric  trams,  and  the  railway  was  a  thing  still  new  enough 
to  be  talked  about.  But  the  real  Rome  was  exactly  what 
it  is  to-day. 

For  the  first  three  years  after  her  father's  death  the  child 
lived  at  the  Two  Queens. 

That  evening,  in  the  restaurant  when  she  told  the  amazed 
Landucci  that  she  was  a  girl,  he  had  been  frightened  to  the 
verge  of  terror.  What  in  Heaven's  name  was  he  to  do  with 
a  girl  child  of  eleven?  He,  most  downtrodden  of  penniless 
men?  Yet  Beechy  had  come  to  stay.  She  was  alive,  there- 
fore she  must  live  and  someone  must  provide  for  her.  This 
was  her  own  idea,  elucidated  with  the  greatest  clearness 
and  with  characteristic  lack  of  embarrassment. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  concluded. 

"  My  Signora  " — began  the  unhappy  little  man,  his  pale 
face  furrowed  with  anxiety,  but  Beechy  laughed.  "  Oh, 
I  don't  like  her,"  she  said  consolingly,  "  I  sha'n't  bother 
her"  Inferring  that  those  she  liked  she  would  naturally 
lean  on.  It  was  one  of  the  small  points  that  marked  her 
for  the  artist. 

Landucci  gave  his  head  a  great  shake,  that  brought  lank 
locks  over  his  brow  in  a  way  he  liked. 

"  I  am  poor,"  he  avowed. 

"  Oh  that,  of  course.  That  doesn't  matter.  I  shall  stay  at 
the  theatre.  I  am  going  to  be  a  great  singer."  Then  she 
dipped  a  hunch  of  grey  bread  into  her  wine  and  water,  and 
tore  at  It  with  the  frank  delight  of  a  dog  over  a  particularly 
succulent  bone. 


THE   EMPTY   CRADLE  41 

Landucci  never  forgot  the  scene.  The  now  nearly  empty 
room,  faintly  lighted  by  bad-smelling  lamps,  the  heaviness 
of  cooking  in  the  air,  the  weary  unshaved  waiter  with  a 
dirty  napkin  over  his  arm.  And  the  little  bright-eyed  boy- 
girl  devouring  mulberry-coloured,  dripping  bread  as  she  un- 
folded to  him  her  perfectly  simple  scheme  of  life. 

"  Will  they  let  me  stay  on  in  the  boys'  chorus  if  they 
know  I'm  a  girl  ?  " 

"  I— I  don't  know " 

"  Then  we  had  better  not  tell  them.     We!  " 

"  But  my  dear, — I  have  no  house,  no  room  for  you — 
have  you  no  friend  with  whom  you  could  live?" 

"  Only  Signora  Marianna,  the  trattorista's  widow,  and 
she  has  dozens  of  children.  Oh,  no,  I  will  come  here.  I'll 
work,  you  know." 

"  There  isn't  any  work,"  protested  the  poor  director 
faintly;  but  it  was  all  in  vain. 

Beechy  meant  to  come  and  live  at  the  Two  Queens;  and 
she  came. 

Fat  Signora  Campi,  the  padrona,  kindest  of  women,  lis- 
tened sympathetically  to  Landucci's  tale,  and  found  for  the 
child  a  wee  room  up  close  under  the  roof,  a  room  shaped 
rather  like  a  flat-iron,  owing  to  the  encroachments  of  other 
rooms.  There  was  in  the  flat-iron  a  small  iron  bedstead, 
a  chair  that  had  once  had  a  cane  bottom,  a  rusty  tin  washing 
stand  in  which  stood  a  broken  basin,  and  an  old-fashioned 
cradle,  a  brown  carved  cradle  on  rockers,  put  up  in  this 
uninhabited  corner  of  the  old  inn  to  be  out  of  the  way. 

Signora  Campi  wiped  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  this  last 
bit  of  furniture. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  all  my  babies  were  rocked  in  that 
cradle;  seven.  And  they  are  all  dead." 


42  BEECHY 

Beechy  delighted  and  happy  (but  not  in  the  least  con- 
sciously grateful)  in  the  possession  of  her  new  home,  put 
her  foot  on  one  of  the  rockers,  and  the  cradle  began  to 
rock. 

"  Madonna  mia,  Madonna  mia,"  cried  the  old  woman, 
clasping  her  beringed  hands,  "  to  think  that  they  are  all 
gone,  my  little  beautiful  babies." 

Three  of  them  had  lived  to  marry,  and  one,  the  one  who 
had  been  the  most  beautiful  of  all  to  the  mother,  had  been 
shot  for  selling  information  to  the  Austrians,  but — to  her 
heart,  as  she  watched  the  slowly  ceasing  movement  of  the 
cradle,  they  were  little  babies  still. 

For  mothers  do  not  change,  any  more  than  Rome  changes. 
They  grow  old,  fat,  thin,  disagreeable,  even  wicked,  as  the 
case  may  be,  but  put  them  in  front  of  the  cradle  or  bed  that 
used  to  hold  their  babies,  and  watch  their  eyes! 

Beechy,  when  she  was  alone,  suddenly  remembered  her 
father,  and  cried  desperately  for  an  hour.  All  her  life  she 
remembered  with  tenderness  the  kind,  gentle-voiced  man  in 
his  armchair.  It  was  not  her  nature  to  forget,  but  (and 
this  faculty  of  artistic  people  is  often  misunderstood)  her 
mind  never  lingered  long  in  the  past. 

So  after  a  torrent  of  hot  tears  the  child  blew  her  little 
nose  in  her  little  handkerchief  and  went  to  sleep  in  a  kind 
of  comfortable  whirl  of  excitement.  To-morrow  was  com- 
ing, and  what  might  it  not  hold?  .  .  . 

There  was  a  moon  that  night,  a  warm  mellow  moon 
away  from  which  the  black  tramontana  had  blown  all  the 
clouds.  A  moon  who  looked  down  at  old  Rome  and  saw, 
probably,  much  that  she  had  seen  in  the  days  when  her 
light  fell  on  Nero's.  Human  ambitions,  passions,  ideals, 
as  she  had  seen  then.  Poor  old  moon,  are  you  ever  bored 


THE  EMPTY   CRADLE  43 

by  our  exact  and  commonplace  likeness  to  those  who  have 
gone  on  ahead? 

And  as  long  since  the  moon  had  looked  in  at  the  sleeping 
face  of  some  youthful  vestal  virgin,  so  that  night  she  gazed 
at  Beechy,  as  the  child  slept,  her  soft  brown  cheek  pillowed 
on  her  right  arm — a  trick  she  never  lost. 

Beechy  slept  well,  for  she  had  not  slept  much  of  late, 
she  had  cried  herself  to  the  stage  of  exhaustion,  and  her  little 
stomach  was  fuller  of  good  food  than  it  had  ever  been. 

But  at  length  she  stirred,  turned,  smiled  and  opened  her 
eyes.  And  her  eyes  fell  on  the  little  old  brown  cradle,  as  it 
stood  by  the  window. 

"  Povera  culla,"  said  Beechy,  sitting  up  in  bed,  "  Are 
you  lonely  ?  " 

Answering  to  the  vibration  caused  by  the  passing  in  the 
narrow  street  below  of  some  heavy  waggon,  the  cradle 
stirred  slightly,  as  if  a  ghost  hand  had  touched  it. 

Beechy 's  eyes  widened.  "  Poor  cradle,"  she  repeated. 
Then,  springing  out  of  bed  she  took  her  little  jacket,  rolled 
it  up  in  a  long  roll,  and  laid  it  in  the  cradle. 

"  There's  a  baby  for  you,"  she  said. 

Then  she  went  to  sleep  again  to  dream  that  she  was 
rocking  the  next  youngest  of  Signora  Marianna's  children, 
and  singing  to  it. 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE  rehearsals  for  "  Carmen  " — then,  mind  you,  a  new 
opera — went  on  regularly,  and  in  their  small  way 
most  of  the  artists  were  good. 

They  had  not  great  voices,  but  having  a  voice  never  yet 
made  an  artist,  and  being  nearly  voiceless  never  yet  pre- 
vented a  man  or  a  woman's  being  an  artist. 

Giacomini  was  a  very  good  actress  indeed,  and  managed 
what  remained  of  a  very  fine  mezzo-soprano  with  consider- 
able skill.  The  most  fiery  of  wantons  on  the  stage,  she  was 
at  home  a  devoted  wife  and  mother,  the  laziest,  most  placid, 
sweet-natured  friend.  This  although  Giacomini's  affection 
for  his  wife  was  known  to  be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Landucci  had  been  in  love  with  Angela  Giacomini  for 
the  past  two  years,  and  although  he  knew  she  loved  her  hus- 
band and  that  she  was  thoroughly  indifferent  to  the  tenor, 
he  felt  no  jealousy  whatsoever  for  the  husband,  and  writhed 
and  sweated  with  anguish  while  she  coquetted  with  Don 
Jose. 

Every  performance  was  thus  a  torture  to  the  man,  and 
caused  him  literally  to  waste  away.  When  the  cigarette 
girl  sat  on  the  tenor's  knee  (in  reality  on  the  chair,  for  she 
was  heavy)  and  made  love  to  him,  Landucci's  staring  white 
face  was  horrible  to  see.  Beechy,  sitting  with  her  confreres 
in  the  gallery  at  Lillas  Pastias,  soon  noticed  this  phenom- 

44 


ONE  If  Ay  TO  FACE  THE  WORLD         45 

enon,  though  she  was  too  young  to  understand  the  reason 
for  it. 

She  also  observed  that  when,  in  the  third  act,  Carmen 
turns  towards  Escamillo,  Landucci's  heckling  of  the  tenor 
ceased  as  by  magic  and  the  baritone  became  at  once  the  ob- 
ject of  his  bitter  invective. 

Carmen,  herself,  of  course  realised  the  situation  per- 
fectly, and,  equally  of  course,  it  amused  her.  The  tenor, 
a  stupid  youth,  never  could  make  out  why  the  director  was 
so  savage  with  him,  during  the  first  acts,  so  gentle  after- 
wards. "  I  sing  the  last  act  worst  of  all,  too,"  he  would 
add,  "  the  tempo  is  so  devilish." 

Poor  Landucci,  it  was  balm  to  him  to  see  the  haggard 
woe-begone  Jose  spurned  by  the  little,  unspeakable,  high- 
heeled  person  with  the  mantilla. 

But  oh,  how  he  loathed  the  Toreador,  all  red  and  white, 
all  swagger  and  seduction. 

And  Beechy,  still  known  at  the  theatre  as  a  boy,  watched 
with  innocent,  shrewd  eyes,  and  wondered.  Three  days 
after  she  had  taken  up  her  abode  at  the  Two  Queens,  the 
child  might  have  been  seen  making  her  way  Tiberwards  at 
about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

It  was  a  sunless,  cheerless,  colourless  day,  a  day  when 
all  the  atmosphere  seems  to  have  been  absorbed  by  the 
dull  stones  of  the  city,  when  mystery  has  withdrawn  from 
Rome,  history  sleeps,  and  even  poetry  is  mute.  Tramon- 
tana,  in  other  words.  Beechy  hurried  along,  her  hands 
buried  deep  in  her  breeches  pockets,  her  cap  jammed  down 
hard  over  her  brows. 

It  was  a  day  that  gave  her  misery,  as  she  put  it.  And 
she  was  bent  on  a  sad  errand. 

Her  father's  few  bits  of  furniture  were  that  day  to  be 


46  BEECHY 

sold,  and  she  was  going  for  the  last  time  to  the  great  room 
where  she  had  been  born,  and  that  had  been  her  home  all 
her  life. 

She  felt  small,  unwanted,  like  a  stray  dog.  The  streets 
were  full  of  busy,  happy,  unkind  people,  all  of  whom  were 
members  of  a  family.  Only  she,  Beechy,  was  alone. 

She  was  utterly  miserable  with  that  miserable  misery 
that  comes  from  the  soul,  from  within,  not  from  external 
circumstances. 

When  she  came  to  the  corner  of  the  Lane  of  Jesus  Christ, 
and  turned  into  the  Street  of  the  Violin,  she  stood  still, 
her  hands,  blue  with  cold,  clasped  against  her  breast. 

Home!  Light,  food,  friends,  mirth  and  nonsense.  Here 
were  all  the  good  things  of  life. 

Gone  the  misery,  gone  the  very  cold! 

Walking  as  if  there  were  springs  in  her  feet,  even  danc- 
ing a  little,  her  face  ever  and  again  breaking  into  a  smile, 
she  hurried  to  old  Agnese's.  An  oil  lamp  burned  already 
in  the  little  room  beyond  the  piled-up  cages,  and  the  old 
woman  sat  by  it,  holding  a  large  green  parrot  in  one  hand 
while  she  vainly  tried  to  clip  one  of  its  struggling,  flapping 
wings. 

"Oh,  Signora  Agnese,"  cried  Beechy,  throwing  her  arms 
around  her  friend's  wrinkled  neck,  "  the  saints  bless  you. 
I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

She  caught  the  parrot's  wing  deftly  and  knelt  down. 
"I'll  hold  him — be  quiet,  you  devil!  Oh,  isn't  he  strong? 
Well,  tell  me,  how  are  you?" 

"  And  how  are — you  all  ?  Signora  Marianna  and  old 
Lambert!  and  Peppina  and  Luisina " 

Agnese,  who  had  at  length  succeeded  in  clipping  the 
wing  of  the  adventurous-minded  parrot,  rose  and  shut  the 
bird  away  in  his  cage. 


ONE   WAV   TO   FACE   THE  WORLD      47 

"Che!     So  you  remember  us  after  all?"  she  asked. 

Beechy  stared. 

"  Remember  you  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Why  shouldn't 
I  remember  you?  " 

The  lamp  threw  a  wavering  exaggerated  shadow  of  the 
old  woman's  beaked  profile  on  the  wall  as  she  came  back. 

"To  go  away  like  that  and  not  come  back!"  she  grum- 
bled. 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing.  "  You  look  just  like  a  cross 
old  parrot  yourself,  on  the  wall!  But — not  come  back?" 
with  an  expressive  throwing  out  and  up  of  her  hands,  "  am 
I  not  here?" 

"  It's  four  days." 

The  child  reflected  for  a  moment  and  then  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "What  are  four  days?"  After  a  pause  she 
added  with  a  little  puzzled  frown,  "  What  dees  it  matter, 
now  that  I  am  here  ?  "  And  this  was  her  instinctive  atti- 
tude toward  life. 

The  fussing,  the  small  hurts,  the  little  jealousies  and 
narrow  acquisitiveness  of  the  greater  part  of  humanity 
she  never,  as  she  always  expressed  it,  arrived  to  understand. 

It  was  not  that  she  would  not;  she  simply  could  not.  If 
she  was  busy  for  six  weeks,  busy  with  work  or  with  amuse- 
ment, she  could  not  write  letters,  and  when  her  subsequent 
greetings,  personal  or  epistolary,  were  met  with  reproaches 
for  past  neglect,  her  cry  was  always,  "  What  does  that 
matter,  when  I  am  here  now?" 

Old  Agnese's  attitude  was  that  of  most  people. 

"  You  might  have  let  us  know ;  you  might  have  come 
sooner.  How  did  we  know  that  you  were  safe?" 

And  Beechy,  bored,  but  struggling  for  patience,  "You 
ought  to  know  that  I  am  always  all  right." 

After  a  time  the  old  woman's  wounded  feelings  were 


48  BEECHY 

soothed,  and  she  and  Beechy  set  out  together  for  the  Pa- 
lazzo Vincenzini,  the  child  attired  in  the  clothes  of  her 
own  sex. 

The  humble  sale  was  going  on  when  they  arrived.  The 
bed  had  already  gone  to  a  Jew,  the  old  easy  chair  was 
being  bidden  for. 

Beechy  stood  by  the  door,  an  unexplained,  unexpected 
feeling  of  anger  tearing  at  her.  These  things  were  hers. 
How  dared  people  sell  her  things? 

Signor  Antonelli,  Simeone's  father,  crossed  the  room  and 
spoke  to  her. 

"  We  got  a  good  price  for  the  bed,"  he  said,  "  and  the 
chair " 

Beechy  stamped  her  foot  sharply.  "  The  chair  is  mine. 
I  won't  have  it  sold." 

«  But " 

"  I  won't  have  it  sold." 

Marianna,  carrying  two  children,  the  elder  of  whom  was 
stirring  up  civil  strife  by  trying  to  put  his  finger  into  the 
eye  of  his  cadet,  came  up  and  tried  to  explain.  "  But 
Carina,  Bici  dear, — you  have  no  money,  you  know,  and 
the  chair  will  bring " 

"  I  won't  have  it  sold." 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  were  deep  set  with  obstinacy, 
her  brows  drawn  together. 

"  Thinorina,"  lisped  the  Jew,  "  I  will  give  you  ten  francs 
for  the  chair " 

"  No,  and  no,  and  no!  It  is  my  chair  and  /  will  not 
sell  it!" 

She  was  now  in  a  towering  rage,  the  small  creature,  and 
unreasonable  and  silly  though  the  rage  was,  its  effects  were 
fine.  Her  cheeks  were  deep  red  and  velvety,  her  eyes  as 


ONE   WAY   TO  FACE   THE  WORLD      49 

black  as  brimming  ink-wells,  her  round  chin  pointe'd  up  de- 
fiantly at  these  grown  people  who  were  boring  her  to 
death  by  forcing  her  into  speeches  where  a  word  should 
have  sufficed. 

"No.     And — basta,  enough." 

Then  she  sat  down  in  the  chair  and  crossed  her  ankles 
and  her  arms  and  was  silent.  Nobody  laughed. 

Half  an  hour  later  everyone  had  gone  but  old  Agnese. 
The  bed,  too,  had  gone,  the  tables — everything  but  the 
easy  chair  in  which  the  child  still  sat. 

"What  will  you  do  with  it?  " 

Old  Agnese's  voice  startled  the  silence  and  woke  an 
echo  which  had  crept  into  the  emptiness. 

"  Keep  it.  Always.  My  father  always  sat  in  it.  It  was 
his." 

"Yes,  but  now?  You  have  nowhere  to  keep  it,  and  it 
is  too  big  for  me  or  Marianna  to  have  room  for  it." 

"  I  have  fifty-seven  francs.  And  I  have  a  room  in  a 
hotel.  And  I  am  earning  money." 

The  old  woman  was  silent.  Then  Beechy  said,  "  Would 
you  mind  going  home,  Signora  Agnese?  I  will  come — 
in  a  little  while." 

Grumbling,  the  old  woman  went  stumblingly  down  the 
sharp-echoing  stairs. 

Beechy  sat  quite  still.  She  was  not  sad.  She  was  too 
busy  with  the  dramatic  quality  of  the  situation  to  be  actively 
sad.  Here  was  she,  Beatrice  Cavaleone,  aged  eleven,  alone 
in  the  world,  leaving  for  ever  the  house  that  had  been  hers 
since  she  was  born — over  there  in  the  dark  corner  the  big 
bed  had  stood. 

And  she  had  fifty-seven  francs — a  huge  fortune — and — 
she  was  an  opera-singer. 


50  BEECHY 

The  world  was  at  her  feet.     Hers. 

And  the  world  was  full  of  almost  unbearably  beautiful 
things. 

Presently  she  found  that  the  corner  where  the  big  bed 
had  stood  was  no  darker  than  the  rest  of  the  room. 

Night  had  come. 

Through  the  delicately  curved  arches  of  the  little  loggia 
the  stars  twinkled.  The  moon  had  gone.  Beechy  went  out 
and  stood  leaning  where,  if  the  legend  is  true,  the  cripple 
had  leaned  to  listen  to  the  merry  voice  of  Raphael  that 
night  long  ago.  Beechy  thought  of  the  story. 

Like  all  Romans  she  was  proud  of  Raphael  as  if  he  had 
been  a  Roman  himself. 

"  Some  day,"  she  said,  "  I  will  go  and  see  his  pictures, 
I  will  go  to  the  Vaticano.  I  will  also  see  the  Holy  Father, 
like  Benedetto.  And  the  King,  I  will  see  him." 

Leaning  over  the  parapet,  looking  down  at  the  velvety, 
light-streaked  and  spotted  street,  she  shivered  with  de- 
light. 

The  world  was  there  and  it  was  hers. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
PROMOTION 

BEECHY,  at  this  time  of  her  life,  rose  early;  at 
about  six.  This  not  because  she  liked  it,  for  she 
loved  her  bed  and  the  last  snuggling  nap  after 
getting-up-time  was  as  dear  to  her  as  it  is  to  most  other 
people. 

She  got  up  because  she  was,  as  well  as  an  opera-singer, 
a  newsboy.  Day  after  day,  all  that  winter,  she  crept  down 
stairs,  out  into  the  dull  dawn,  and  shivering  made  her  way 
to  the  office  of  the  biggest  morning  paper  of  the  day. 

There  she  waited  with  a  crowd  of  boys,  until  the  papers 
were  distributed,  and  away  she  ran,  her  damp  bundle  under 
her  arm. 

By  this  time  hunger  would  not  be  denied,  so  back  she 
raced  to  the  Two  Queens  where  one  of  her  intimate  friends, 
a  sub-pastry-cook,  would  give  her  a  large  cup  like  an  Orien- 
tal bath  tub,  of  cafe  au  lait  sweetened  with  coarse,  brown- 
ish sugar,  and  as  much  of  yesterday's  bread  as  she  could 
eat. 

And  she  could  eat  a  good  deal,  our  opera-singer. 

The  kitchen  was  pleasantly  warm,  and  Ercole,  the  sub- 
pastry-cook,  as  pleasantly  cheery  and  easy  tempered. 

Her  breakfast  eaten,  she  refolded  the  newspaper  that 
Ercole  in  return  for  his  kindness  was  permitted  to  read, 
and  then  for  three  hours  the  child  roamed  the  streets  of 
Rome  bawling  out  her  wares,  cheeking  people,  producing 

Si 


52  BEECHY 

coppers  in  change  from  her  pockets  in  a  boyish  way  that  by 
this  time  was  second  nature  to  her.  And  she  was  not  in 
the  least  to  be  pitied.  It  was  fun  rushing  about  the  streets, 
it  was  a  marvellous,  glorious  spree,  being  a  boy. 

Later,  as  she  looked  back  at  this  period,  Beechy  could 
not  recall  any  conscious  realisation  that  she  was  not  a  real 
boy.  Her  travesty  of  course  brought  in  its  wake  many 
amusing  incidents,  many  laughs — to — one's  self,  but  as  a 
whole  the  child  felt,  as  she  looked,  a  small  male  street 
urchin. 

Her  language  was  vile  when  necessary,  rough  and  cheer- 
fully profane  at  all  times,  and  she  could  never  recall  having 
felt  any  shame  therefor. 

One  day  in  a  quarrel  a  big  boy  pulled  oft  her  cap.  Be- 
fore he  had  noticed  her  tightly  twisted  pigtail  she  had  seized 
her  cap  and  fled  out  of  the  dark  courtyard,  leaving  her 
papers  behind  her.  She  had  juggled  with  Fate  and  now, 
suddenly,  she  saw  her  danger. 

Back  to  the  via  del  Violino  she  ran,  and  into  old  Ag- 
nese's  shop. 

"  Agnese,"  she  cried,  panting  for  breath,  "  You  must  cut 
off  my  hair." 

And  the  old  woman,  lamenting  loudly,  obeyed  her. 

"  Don't  cry,"   Beechy  said  roughly,   "  it's  my  hair,   and 

I  love  it,  but — it's  the  only  thing  to  be  done."     Her  de- 
cision was  late,  but  it  came  irrevocably.     An  hour  later, 
pigtailless,  she  sprang  on  her  late  enemy  from  behind,  and 
gave  him  a  thorough  beating. 

Through  this  feat  her  prestige  was  assured  and  her 
battles  were  few,  for  she  could  now,  as  the  conqueror  of 

II  Rosso,  refuse  without  loss  of  honour  to  engage  in  other 
battles. 


PROMOTION  53 

The  winter  dragged  by,  hastened  by,  melted  away,  ac- 
cording to  the  mental  states  of  those  who  underwent  it. 

The  opera  was  in  its  way  a  success,  it  was  played  for  six 
weeks,  then  gave  place  to  another,  in  which  there  were  not 
only  no  little  boys,  but  also,  no  little  girls.  Apparently 
the  operatic  career  was  closed  to  Beechy.  Remained,  how- 
ever, her  branch  of  journalism,  and  there  were,  some  years 
later,  many  men  who  publicly  boasted  of  having  bought 
papers  of  her  during  that  phase  of  her  queer  childhood. 

Her  fortune,  her  fifty-seven  francs,  had  gone  the  way  of 
other  inherited  fortunes,  and  kind  Signora  Campi  had 
no  scruple  about  taking  the  newspaper  money  in  return  for 
the  bread  and  lodging  of  her  busy  little  protegee. 

'  The  room,  one  understands,  I  do  not  need,  and  he  is 
welcome  to  it;  but  his  food!  Holy  saints,  but  he  eats,  the 
boy;  he  eats  like  a  grown  man;  he  is  always  hungry,  and 
when  he  is  no  longer  hungry,  then  still  he  is  always  ready 
for  more." 

Under  the  generous  regime  of  the  Two  Queens,  fish  fried 
in  oil,  macaroni  and  its  like,  oil-soaked  salads  and  vege- 
tables, the  child  grew  strong  and  sturdy  and  her  quick 
mind  never  had  a  chance  to  outweary  her  lengthening  body. 
Many  people  go  through  life  hampered  by  some  delicacy 
or  weakness  acquired  through  a  lack  of  proper  food  in  their 
childhood. 

Although  no  longer  in  actual  fief  to  the  Leopardi,  Beechy 
had  acquired  a  certain  position  among  the  kind-hearted 
artists,  and  nearly  every  day  the  old  hunchbacked  stage- 
door  keeper  let  her  in  with  the  smile  that  most  people  have 
for  pleasant  children.  The  old  man  had  a  weakness  for 
Greek  olives;  the  wizened,  wrinkled,  dark  green  salt  things 
that  are  sold  in  grocer's  shops  out  of  huge  jars,  and  very 


54  BEECHY 

often  indeed  the  child  brought  him  some  wrapped  in  brine- 
soaked  grey  paper. 

In  return  he  used  to  give  her  triangles  of  dingy,  delicious 
chestnut  paste ;  so  they  were  good  friends. 

No  one  but  Landucci  knew  that  il  piccole  Bici  was  a 
girl,  and  to  Landucci  it  was  a  guilty  secret  that  he  tried 
to  forget. 

For  his  Signora  hated  the  child,  and  would  not  allow 
the  poor  man  to  speak  to  her,  for  Beechy  had  made 
people  laugh  at  her  that  first  evening  in  the  restaurant,  and 
moreover  Beechy  had  shown  too  plainly  that  she  liked  the 
director. 

Everyone  else  from  the  soprano  down  to  the  scene-shifters 
called  her  Piccolo  Bici,  and,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  child 
herself  could  not  recall  in  later  years  that  she  was  con- 
scious of  deception  in  the  matter.  It  was  not  only  romantic 
and  delightful  to  be  a  boy,  it  was  also  useful  in  every  way, 
and  a  wonderful  simplifier  of  life.  So  she  was  a  boy.  That 
was  all. 

Lent  came  early  that  year,  and  at  Mi-Careme  "  Carmen  " 
was  revived. 

Beechy  was  delighted.  Before  the  first  rehearsal,  she 
had  her  rapidly  growing  hair  cropped  afresh,  and  per- 
suaded Signora  Agnese  to  give  her  another  suit  of  clothes. 
This  time  the  trousers  were  short, — dark  blue,  and  the 
jacket  was  a  sailor  jacket,  with  a  broad  collar.  When  she 
came  running  in  at  the  last  moment,  out  of  breath  and 
rosy,  Giacomini  caught  her  and  gave  her  a  resounding  kiss 
on  each  cheek. 

"  Look  at  the  dear  little  legs,"  the  soprano  cried,  "  the 
sweet  little  calves  to  them,  and  the  ankles!  What  a  pity 
you  are  not  a  girl,  and  you  could  be  a  page  in " 


PROMOTION  55 

Beechy  stuck  out  her  lip.     "Aren't  pages  boys?" 

"  They  are  supposed  to  be,  but  they  are  always  girli 
dressed  up." 

They  all  wondered  why  the  handsome  little  fellow  burst 
out  laughing. 

When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  Beechy,  as  was  her  custom, 
walked  as  far  as  the  Pantheon  with  Landucci. 

He  was  visibly  disturbed,  his  black  moustache  looking 
like  an  ebony  bar  against  the  pallor  of  his  face. 

"  It's  Carmen  that  makes  you  suffer,"  remarked  Beechy. 

He  started.  "  Carmen, — you're  mad !    Signora  Giac " 

Beechy  cut  him  short.  "  Of  course  I  don't  mean  her, 
I  mean — just  the  whole  opera — I  remember  in  the  early 
winter  you  looked — as  you  do  now." 

Landucci  sighed  with  melancholy  vanity.  His  passion 
was  sincere,  his  pain  so  great  that  he  was  nearly  mad,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  could  not,  being  a  man  of  the  theatre, 
help  enjoying  the  way  he  looked  his  part. 

But  he  had  a  new  trouble  now,  and  Beechy  hit  on  it  as 
they  hurried  on  through  the  cheerful  streets. 

"  The  new  tenor,"  she  observed  with  an  air  of  fine  criti- 
cism, "  pleases  me." 

"Pleases  youl" 

"  Yes.     He  has  a  good  voice,  and — he  is  good  looking." 

Landucci  caught  her  arm  suddenly  in  a  grip  that  hurt. 
"  Is  that  what  women  call  good  looking?  Confectioners' 
pink  sugar  and  spun-sugar  hair?  " 

" Aie,  you  hurt  me!  And  I  am  not  a  woman,  so  how 
do  I  know?  Me,  he  pleases." 

Landucci  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
you,  poveretto,"  he  said,  "  and  I  suppose  you  are  right,  he 
is  good  looking.  And  he  has  a  coat  with  silk  braid  all 


56  BEECHY 

round  the  edges.  The  uniform,"  he  added  with  a  sudden 
incongruous  chuckle,  "  will  be  too  small  for  him !  " 

Beechy  thought  no  more  of  the  conversation,  and  a  few 
days  later  she  met  with  a  rise  in  the  world.  Among  the 
women  who  sang  in  the  chorus  of  gypsies  was  one  Violetta 
Urbani  who  took  the  high  notes.  She  had  no  middle  regis- 
ter but  somewhere  in  her  long  throat  she  had  a  most  use- 
ful little  set  of  piercing  shrieks  tuned  to  the  notes  of  from 
a  to  c  in  alt. 

And  the  Mercedes  being  extremely  bad,  this  woman 
Violetta  used  always  to  stand  close  behind  her  to  supple- 
ment her  faded  high  notes.  In  the  fortune-telling  duet 
Violetta  stood  looking  over  Mercedes'  shoulder  weaving  her 
voice  with  some  skill  into  the  other  woman's. 

So  Violetta  was  useful,  and  when  she  fell  ill  and  could 
not  come,  the  stage  manager  tore  his  hair  (literally  and 
dramatically)  and  did  not  think  he  could  bear  it. 

"The  only  b  flat  in  the  whole  chorus,"  he  stormed, 
"  and  no  time  to  try  for  a  new  one." 

Signora  Giacomini,  who  was  sitting  sewing  a  button  on 
the  dashing  Morales'  uniform,  looked  up  quickly.  "  There's 
little  Bici,"  she  suggested. 

"  A  boy !  "  muttered  the  stage  manager  scornfully. 

"  Why  not  ?  Girls  dress  as  boys,  and  even  grown  women 
as  men.  He  is  as  tall  as  lots  of  the  chorus  ladies,  and  as 
pretty  as  any  girl  you  ever  saw.  With  a  wig — little  Bici, 
come  here." 

Beechy,  who  had  been  doing  an  errand  for  the  Dan- 
caire,  ran  across  the  stage.  "  Signora?  " 

"Could  you  sing  Urbani's  part?" 

Beechy  nodded, — "with  Mercedes?  Yes,  I  think  so, 
why?" 


PROMOTION  57 

"  Because  she's  ill,  and  Mercedes — well,  you  know.  Do 
you  think  you  could  walk  with  a  skirt  ?  " 

Beechy,  who  had  a  deep-seated  sense  of  humour,  caught 
Landucci's  eye. 

"  I — could  try.    But  my  hair,"  she  suggested  innocently. 

"  Come  here  and  try,"  interrupted  the  stage  manager 
suddenly.  "  It's  worth  trying.  When  the  devil  is  hungry 
he  eats  flies.  Number  15,  Maestro " 

The  orchestra  struck  up,  and  the  card  duet  began.  "  La- 
la,  la,  la"  sang  Beechy,  wordless  but  perfect  as  to  tone, 
the  high  notes  piercingly  sweet,  the  tempo  perfect. 

They  then  went  back  to  the  quintette  in  the  second  act 
and  here  through  some  trick  of  memory  Beechy  knew  the 
words  too.  They  struck  her  as,  in  the  circumstances,  very 
amusing. 

When  they  stopped  singing,  Mercedes,  a  pretty  woman 
with  bad  teeth,  put  her  arm  around  her  coadjutor. 

"  That's  perfect,"  she  said  heartily,  "  far  better  than 
Urban!  who  splits  my  ears.  May  I  keep  her,  Signore?  I 
will  dress  her  myself  if  you  will  send  me  a  wig " 

And  thus  it  was  settled,  and  thus,  the  evening  of  Mi- 
Careme  of  that  year,  Beechy,  a  girl  disguised  as  a  boy  dis- 
guised as  a  girl,  made  her  debut  in  the  role  of  Mercedes. 

The  words  she  learned  in  two  days,  Landucci  whose 
wife  believed  him  to  be  out,  sitting  in  her  little  room  with 
her  by  the  light,  oh  luxury,  oh  wicked  extravagance,  of 
two  .candles. 

Her  memory  was  quick  and  acute,  and  her  musical  ear 
extraordinary.  Indeed  throughout  her  career  she  owed 
less  to  her  voice  than  to  her  other  gifts. 

Landucci  was  goodness  itself  to  her,  and  found  much 
comfort  in  her  innocent  society.  The  man  was  literally 


58  BEECHY 

torn  to  pieces  by  his  love  for  the  commonplace  soprano,  his 
afternoons  and  evenings  in  the  conductor's  chair,  separated 
from  the  ogling,  flirting  thing  only  by  the  footlights,  were 
to  him  a  veritable  torture. 

Somehow  his  mind  refused  to  accept  the  woman  as  she 
was,  an  ordinary,  nice  little  soul  whose  chief  passion  in  the 
world  was  for  sweets,  and  who  went  her  way  through  life 
undisturbed  by  any  possibilities  of  other  things. 

To  him,  she  was  irrevocably  the  fatal  charmer  whose 
smiles  lost  an  honest  man  his  soul,  and  by  constant  thought, 
ceaseless  brooding,  his  sense  of  proportion  was  imperilled, 
the  demarcation  lines  between  the  real  and  the  unreal,  wa- 
vering and  uncertain. 

The  night  when  Beechy,  a  most  enchanting  little  gypsy, 
tripped  about  the  stage  for  the  first  time  in  skirts,  was  the 
night  she  grew  up  in  some  ways. 

There  was  a  fearful,  thoroughly  feminine  joy  in  the  mock 
adoration  of  some  of  the  men.  The  Remendado  indeed 
kissed  her,  and  her  powers  of  acting  were  loudly  applauded 
when  in  a  perfectly  sincere  access  of  fury  she  boxed  his 
large  red  ears. 

"  Brava,  Signorina!" 

Someone  on  this  occasion  even  called  her  by  her  real 
name,  in  the  fond  delusion  of  making  a  pun. 

"Signorina  Bici — Signorina  Beatrice!  Che  bel  name — 
beautiful  Beatrice  of  Dante," — with  a  low  bow. 

She  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  the  only  drawback  to 
perfect  rapture  being  that  no  one  else  knew  the  marvellous 
humour  of  it  all! 

Her  rough  curly  black  wig  aged  her  face  a  little,  she 
wore  a  padded  vest  under  her  bodice — she  looked  seven- 
teen. She  sang  well,  and  she  acted  well,  with  the  natural 


PROMOTION  59 

grace  of  all  Italians  and  the  originality  of  her  own  decided 
little  entity.  They  were  all  proud  of  her.  She  was  too 
young  to  provoke  the  ever-ready  actors'  jealousy,  and  be- 
sides, the  men  could  not  have  been  jealous  of  her  travesty 
as  a  girl,  while  the  women  of  course  looked  upon  her  as  a 
boy. 

It  was  a  very  involved  and  bewildering  situation,  but 
never  was  a  situation  better  enjoyed  by  its  occupant. 

It  was,  also,  something  to  be  able  to  sing  notes  that 
flew  well  out  over  the  braying  orchestra  and  found  appre- 
ciation in  the  faces  of  the  audience.  When  Mercedes 
bowed,  her  hand  on  her  bosom,  Beechy  giggled  audibly 
and  was  reproved  by  the  prompter. 

The  new  tenor,  who  had  not  been  present  on  the  occa- 
sion of  her  appointment  to  her  part,  was  the  ready  victim 
of  a  joke  arranged  by  the  Remendado.  He  was  presented 
to  Beechy. 

"  Signer  Tenore, — allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my 
niece,  Beatrice — h'm — Beatrice  Bid.  She  makes  her  debut 
to-night." 

And  the  tenor,  the  pink  and  golden  Torinese,  bowed 
deeply.  He  was  highly  susceptible,  and  Beechy  was  indeed 
very  pretty.  She  was  also  a  flirt  and  to  everybody's  joy  she 
led  him  a  dance  the  whole  evening,  at  last  cuffing  him 
soundly  to  Landucci's  hysterical  amusement. 

When  she  had  reached  the  Two  Queens  and  was  alone, 
she  stood  in  front  of  a  broken  glass  that  had  recently  been 
banished  to  her  room  to  get  it  out  of  the  way. 

"  Am  I  a  boy  dressed  as  a  girl  or  am  I  a  girl  dressed 
as  a  boy?  "  she  asked  herself;  then  she  sat  down  and,  start- 
ing the  cradle  rocking,  remained  for  many  an  hour  dream' 
ing  and  wondering. 


CHAPTER   IX 
FATHER  ANTONIO 

SPRING  brought  to  Rome  that  year  an  unusual  quan- 
tity of  daffodils,  so  that  the  old  streets  were  full  of 
the  golden  things.     Carts  of  them,   banks  of  them, 
baskets  of  them,  bunches  of  them  carried  by  foot  passen- 
gers,    carriage-hoods     filled     them,     buttonholes     adorned 
by  them. 

Daffodils,  daffodils  everywhere,  as  if  the  splendid  sun- 
shine had  spilled  out  of  the  sky  and  settled  in  pools  and 
splashes  all  over  Rome. 

It  was  the  boy  Bici's  last  spring,  and  he  loved  it.  It 
was  the  girl  Beechy's  first  spring  in  some  ways  and  it  went 
to  her  head  like  wine,  and  made  her  laugh  and  jest  and 
chatter  until  everyone  she  knew  laughed  and  jested  and 
chattered  with  her. 

Until,  much  later,  real  trouble  came  to  her,  she  was 
never  so  much  as  bored.  Healthy,  well-fed  and  busy,  the 
joy  of  life  was  at  times  almost  more  than  she  could  bear. 

There  were  moments  when  her  radiant  smile  of  joy,  a 
smile  she  could  not  repress,  needed  an  excuse  and  she  made 
silly  explanations  of  it  to  people.  The  very  delight  of 
being  in  the  world  was  a  great  and  marvellous  thing,  and 
frequently  required  the  expression  of  a  rapid  pas  seul  or  a 
roulade  copied  with  surprising  fidelity  (with  all  her  faults 
of  rocalisation)  from  Signorina  Blandi,  the  new  soprano. 

60 


FATHER   ANTONIO  61 

There  are  nowadays,  not  many  natures  like  Beechy's. 
It  would  seem  that  the  world,  beautiful  as  it  is,  is  too  old 
for  such  primitive  joyousness;  but  when  a  human  soul 
is  given  such  a  spirit,  let  it  rejoice,  for  it  holds  one  of  the 
greatest  gifts,  if  not  the  very  greatest  gift,  ever  known. 

Possibly  in  early  days  when  the  world  was  young,  when 
the  people  old  Homer  (and  what  a  young  Homer  they 
must  have  been  to  write  as  they  did!  as  Max  Beerbohm 
says)  tells  about,  were  living,  loving,  fighting  creatures 
there  were  more  natures  like  Beechy's,  more  bubbling  wells 
of  animal  joy. 

She  was  like  a  kitten  in  the  sun,  like  a  song  bird  at  dawn 
singing  to  the  light,  like,  in  her  joyous  prodigality,  the 
daffodils  that  gladdened  her  old  city  that  eventful  spring. 

It  was,  moreover,  no  mere  ebullition  of  youth.  That 
one  often  sees.  Most  young  things,  thank  God,  are  gay 
and  keen,  and  full  of  quick  laughter.  One  looks  at  sad- 
faced,  peevish  women  and  remembers  wonderingly  how 
merry  and  hopeful  they  were  twenty-five  years  ago;  but  this 
characteristic  of  Beechy's  was  different.  It  was  as  much  a 
part  of  her  very  spirit  as  her  hands  were  a  part  of  her 
person;  it  was  the  essence  of  her;  the  mainspring  of  her 
being ;  her  principal,  held  in  trust  for  her  against  all  possi- 
ble expenditure  of  income;  it  was  a  magic  chain-armour 
shirt  against  the  world's  arrows;  it  was  a  pair  of  wings 
to  bear  her  away  from  things  that  would  have  killed  her. 
It  was  the  just  gift  of  some  beautiful  heathen  goddess  to 
whose  worship  she  unknowingly  bowed,  in  spite  of  her 
Christian  baptism  and  easy  belief  in  saints  and  priests. 

So  Easter  came,  roses  and  violets  and  tourists  filled  Rome, 
and  Beechy's  twelfth  birthday  dawned. 

At  this  time  she  was  a  strong-limbed,    rather  square- 


62  BEECHY 

built  child  with  broad  shoulders,  a  peculiarly  well-poised 
walk  and  an  uplift  of  the  chin  which  she  kept  always.  Her 
large  eyes,  very  clear  and  of  a  very  unusually  dark  blue 
like  sapphires  in  the  sun,  held  a  fearless  look  like  those  of 
a  boy.  The  beauty  of  her  full  smooth  eyelids  that  was 
later  much  talked  about  was  not  yet  noticeable. 

Her  mouth,  rather  large,  was  not  yet  beautiful.  It  was 
too  set  in  repose,  too  abandoned  in  laughter,  but  it  was  red 
and  smooth  over  the  white  teeth  that  were  not  quite 
straight.  Later,  her  mouth  became  very  lovely. 

As  to  her  hair,  close  cropped,  the  ends  turning  up  like 
acanthus  leaves,  it  was  fine  and  dry,  with  a  soft  gloss  and 
bluish  shadows,  and  grew  in  a  splendid  smooth  line  round 
her  brow  over  the  temples  and  ears  and  down  to  the  nape. 
She  never  had  short  untidy  hair  at  the  back  of  her  neck,  an 
unusual  thing. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  Easter  Sunday  Beechy  rose  and 
went  to  confession.  It  was  a  warm,  bright  morning,  and 
the  church  was  chill  after  the  glow  of  the  streets. 

The  old  priest  in  the  confessional  listened  with  a  dull 
ear  to  her  conventional  little  sins,  and  absolved  her  with- 
out more  to-do. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  forward  towards  the 
altar  and  knelt  politely,  to  say  a  few  prayers.  The  altar 
was  gay  with  flowers,  several  early  worshippers  knelt  near 
her,  and  through  a  gorgeous,  dingy,  coloured  window  the 
baffled  sun  tried  to  peer  in. 

Beechy  prayed  rapidly,  looking  round  her  as  she  prayed. 

"  Holy  Madonna,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "  help  me  to 
be  good  and  successful;  make  my  voice  grow  and  make  the 
Signor  Stage  Manager  give  me  a  role  soon.  Madonna 
mia  cara " 


FATHER  ANTONIO  63 

A  heavy  hand  was  at  that  moment  laid  on  her  shoulder 
and  turning  she  found  the  old  priest  looking  down  at 
her. 

"  Why  are  you  dressed  like  this  ?  "  he  asked  sternly. 

"Dressed — Oh,  like  a  boy,  you  mean?" 

She  rose,  smiling  broadly.  She  liked  the  old  man,  even 
though  he  frowned. 

"  Come  into  the  sacristy  when  you  have  finished  your 
prayers,"  he  returned,  and  left  her. 

A  moment  later  she  found  him  sitting  on  a  brown  bench 
by  the  open  sacristy  door,  a  book  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  right  in  thinking  that  I  confessed  you  a  few 
minutes  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  shrewdly  at  her,  his  small  bright  eyes  very 
sharp  to  see. 

"  You  are  a  girl." 

"  Yes,  Father." 

"  Then  why  do  you  wear  these  unseemly  clothes?  " 

She  smiled.     "They  are  nice  clothes." 

"  You  come  to  the  House  of  God  thus  travestied!  Shame 
on  you." 

Beechy's  smile  disappeared.  "  I  am  not  ashamed,"  she 
said,  "  I  always  wear  boy's  clothes." 

The  old  man  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  asked  her 
to  explain. 

She  did  so,  very  frankly,  rather  amused,  on  reflection,  by 
her  own  skill  in  passing  herself  off  for  a  boy,  sorry  to  have 
offended  a  priest,  but  quite  convinced  that  God  was  not 
in  the  least  angry  with  her. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"Twelve  to-day.     This  is  my  birthday!" 


64  BEECHY 

Again  she  smiled,  and  he  wavered.  Her  utter  innocence 
baffled  him. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  it  is  not — not — proper " 

Merrily  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Proper?  But  why?  Am  I  not  decently  covered?  And 
I  can  run,  and  jump — skirts,"  she  added,  with  a  compre- 
hensive glance  of  sympathy  at  his  dusty  old  soutan,  "  are 
such  a  nuisance, — aren't  they  ?  " 

Her  eyes  said  more.  They  said :  "  After  all,  dear  good 
old  man,  isn't  it  rather  a  joke,  you,  a  man  in  petticoats, 
scolding  me,  a  girl,  for  wearing  trousers  ?  " 

He  shuffled  his  clumsy,  silver-buckled  shoes  uneasily  on 
the  stone  floor.  "Are  your  father  and  mother  alive?" 

"  No,  both  dead,"  she  answered  cheerfully. 

"What — what  were  they?" 

Vaguely  he  felt  that  she  must  be  a  little  better  bred  than 
most  of  his  parishioners. 

But  she  did  not  understand. 

"  My  father  was  a  Roman,  Padre,  and  my  mother  was 
English." 

"  Ahl "  The  old  man  rose,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  nod- 
ding with  relief.  "  English !  That,  then,  explains  it. 
There  are  no  doubt  many  very  good  English  people,  but—- 
they are  all  a  little  queer,  all  a  little  queer.  And  you? 
You  have  lived  in  England?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Padre.    I  am  a  Roman." 

She  stood  there,  the  Roman,  a  gallant  little  figure  in 
the  sunlight,  the  faded  blue  of  her  sailor  collar  throwing 
her  rich  colouring  into  fine  relief. 

"I  am  all  Roman,  I!" 

So  she  thought. 


FATHER  ANTONIO  65 

But  the  old  man  thought  differently  and  smiled  at  her 
very  kindly. 

"  I  see,  I  see,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  but — you  are  growing 
up,  you  are  nearly  a  woman " 

"  God  forbid !  "  she  interrupted  heartily. 

"  Hush !  Nearly  a  woman.  And — it  is  time  you  wore 
the  clothes  of  a  female.  Will  you  not  take  an  old  man's 
advice?" 

She  smiled  at  him.  "  Ah,  Padre — dear  Father, — don't 
say  that.  Think  of  my  poor  legs  in  petticoats ! " 

"  Your  poor  legs  are  too  old  to  be — exposed.  They  must 
be  covered.  They  must" 

Out  in  the  little  patch  of  garden  leading  to  the  priest's 
house,  a  bird  sang  in  a  blossoming  almond-tree.  Beechy 
forgot  her  legs  and  listened  rapturously,  her  mouth  quiv- 
ering with  delight. 

"  Oh,  how  sweet,  how  lovely !  "  she  cried.  "  I  do  love 
birds." 

The  old  man  whose  day,  such  as  it  had  been,  was  done, 
watched  her  a  little  sadly.  His  eyes  had  been  sharp,  his 
wits  keen,  but  his  field  of  observation  had  necessarily  been 
narrow.  And  here,  in  this  brown-faced  girl-boy  he  knew 
he  had  found  something  beyond  his  understanding.  That 
she  was  half-foreign  explained  much,  for  every  uneducated 
Italian  knows  that  all  foreigners  are  a  little  mad,  but  there 
was  not  only  her  strange  blood  to  deal  with,  there  was  some- 
thing else  that  he  could  not  at  all  seize. 

And  this  saddened  him,  for  he  was  of  those,  perhaps 
really  the  salt  of  the  earth,  whose  only  ambition  is  to  help 
others. 

"  You  run  great  dangers  by — this  way  of  dressing,"  he 
murmured  feebly. 


66  BEECHY 

"Oh  no!  Not  that.  You  see,  Padre  mio  buono,  I  am 
an  opera-singer — at  the  Leopardi, — and  they  are  all  very 
good  to  me.  If  I  was  a  girl  the  women  would  not  be 
good  to  me  because  I  sing  well.  Besides " 

"Besides?" 

"  If  the  men  knew  I  was  a  girl  they  would  make  love 
to  me !  "  she  chuckled.  "  Once  I  was  dressed  as  a  girl  in 
a  chorus,  and  the  tenor  tried  to  kiss  me!  " 

Brazen  reminiscences  told  at  the  foot  of  a  great  wooden 
crucifix  in  a  sacristy  on  Easter  Sunday! 

A  great  clashing  and  clanging  of  bells,  filling  the  air 
with  their  clangour,  ended  the  conversation.  Sighing,  the 
old  man  rose  and  bade  his  visitor  depart. 

"  Come  and  see  me,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  live  across  the 
garden — Father  Antonio.  You  will  come  ?  " 

"  Gladly,  Father,  and  thank  you." 

But  he  knew  something  of  the  world  after  all. 

"You  promise?"  he  insisted  gently. 

"  I  promise,  Father." 

Then  he  let  her  go  and  she  crossed  the  dark  church 
again,  with  a  hasty  bob  to  the  altar,  and,  her  brow  and 
fingers  damp  with  blessed  water,  she  pushed  back  the  dirty 
leather  curtain  and  went  out  into  the  sunny  little  piazzetta. 


CHAPTER   X 
WHY  GIACOMINI'S  FACE  WAS  SCRATCHED 

SIGNOR  GIACOMINI,  the  husband  of  the  dramatic 
soprano,  was  a  typical  Mangia-cantante  or,  literally 
translated,  "  Singer-eater." 

That  is  to  say,  he  lived,  with  beautiful  completeness,  on 
his  wife. 

In  early  life  a  waiter  in  a  restaurant,  he  had  on  her  first 
success  retired  from  business  and  settled  down  as  a  gen- 
tleman of  leisure,  haunter  of  theatres,  sponge,  vagabond, 
doer  of  dirty  work. 

Signora  Giacomini  loved  him,  and  was  an  honest  woman, 
but  had  she  not  been  honest  the  role  of  mart  complaisant 
would  assuredly  have  been  added  to  the  others  he  adorned. 

He  was  a  small  swaggering  man  given  to  occasional  erup- 
tions of  imitation  jewelled  tie-pins,  studs  and  chains.  His 
eyes  were  puffy  and  sly,  his  hands  dirty  and  eloquent. 

He  exists  in  theatrical  circles  by  the  hundred,  and  as  a 
rule  he  is  despised,  though  individually  he  is  sometimes 
rather  popular,  for  he  is  as  often  as  not  free  with  his  wife's 
money  and  always  ready  to  waste  time  laughing,  and  play- 
ing cards,  and  drinking  very  slightly  alcoholic  drinks. 

Giacomini  possessed  an  intensely  sweet  little  tenor  voice, 
and  might  easily  have  sung  in  the  chorus  had  such  a  posi- 
tion not  been  beneath  the  dignity  of  the  soprano's  hus- 
band. 

6? 


68  BEECHY 

So  he  spent  most  of  his  time  sitting  in  the  wings  criti- 
cising the  artists  or  playing  cards  at  a  cafe  round  the  cor- 
ner. 

The  man  was  thoroughly  to  be  despised,  and  of  no  im- 
portance whatever  except  that  he  brought  about  a  small 
event  that  was  of  certain  usefulness  to  Beechy. 

"  Carmen  "  was  at  that  time  a  new  opera  and  in  Rome  it 
was  very  popular.  So  after  Easter  it  was  put  on  again 
and  Beechy  was  permanently  advanced  to  the  part  of  first 
aid  in  high  notes  to  Mercedes,  vice  Violetta  Urbani,  re- 
tired. 

Landucci  was  ill,  not  too  ill  to  go  on  with  his  so  sorely 
needed  work,  but  far  from  well.  Beechy  was  very  fond 
of  the  little  director,  and  detested  as  cordially  his  carp- 
ing, disagreeable  wife.  So  it  was  with  great  joy  that  the 
girl  came  in  one  evening  to  find  Landucci  sitting  by  her 
window.  "She  has  gone!"  he  cried,  "gone  for  a  whole 
week!" 

"Bravo!    But  where?" 

"  To  Calabria.  Her  mother  is  ill — Oh,  Bici,"  the  poor 
man  went  on,  stretching  his  arms  over  his  head  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  I  am  so  glad." 

Beechy  poured  some  water  into  her  basin  and  washed  her 
hands. 

"  Glad!    So  am  I!    What  luck  to  have  her  mother  ill." 

"  Oh,  hush !  I  am  sorry  she's  ill — you  ought  not  to  say 
that " 

Beechy  laughed.  "Why  not?  I  don't  know  her,  and 
somebody's  mother  is  bound  to  be  ill,  I  suppose,  so  I'm 
glad  it's  the  Signora  Luisa's.  You  look  tired,  Maestro." 

His  face  darkened.  "  Tired !  Yes.  Bici "  he  hesi- 
tated, pushing  the  dark  black  hair  from  his  brow. 


WHY  HIS  FACE   WAS  SCRATCHED       69 

"  Ebbene?  " 

"  How  old  are  you, — twelve?  Yes.  No.  You  are  too 

young,  too  young "  he  broke  off  and  gazed  regretfully 

at  her. 

"Too  young  for  what,  Maestro?" 

She  stood  still,  the  coarse  towel  in  her  hands. 

With  a  shrug  he  tried  to  laugh,  "  No,  no, — it  is  nothing. 
Let's  go  and  dine,  you  must  be  hungry." 

She  said  no  more  and  they  went  downstairs  to  the  res- 
taurant. 

It  was  only  six  o'clock  and  the  place  was  empty.  The 
director  ordered  some  macaroni  and  a  flask  of  Chianti. 
"  This  is  the  first  meal  I  have  had  without  her  for  over  two 
years,"  he  said,  "  God!  " 

Beechy,  who  was  hungry,  began  to  eat  bread  at  once. 
She  now  paid  for  her  food  as  she  ate  it,  but  only  half  what 
other  people  paid. 

In  return  for  this  favour  she  read  the  paper  every  day 
to  Signora  Campi,  and  did  that  unwieldy  woman's  errands 
twice  a  week,  devoting  the  whole  afternoon  to  them. 

It  was  a  business  arrangement  like  another  and  proved 
very  satisfactory  both  to  the  party  of  the  first,  and  the  party 
of  the  second. 

Tripe  and  onions  was  her  choice  of  a  dish  for  that 
evening,  and  very  good  it  was  with  bread  and  wine. 

Landucci  was  silent  at  first,  and  then,  towards  the  end  of 
the  meal,  he  began  to  talk. 

"  It  is  hell,"  he  said,  "  neither  more  nor  less,  I  tell  you. 
And  two  hells  in  one  life  is  too  much.  Too  much !  " 

"Two  hells?" 

"Yes.     The  one  at  the   theatre  and   then — here   with 


70  BEECHY 

Beechy,  whose  table  manners  were,  of  course,  those  of 
her  associates,  wiped  her  plate  scrupulously  with  a  bit  of 
bread  and  popped  the  bread  into  ther  mouth.  "  But — what 
hell  at  the  theatre  ?  "  she  asked. 

Landucci  poured  out  another  glass  of  the  oily  dark  wine. 
"  Ha!  You  haven't  seen  it.  Of  course  not.  Who  cares 
about — about  me  ?  " 

Beechy  glanced  sharply  at  him. 

"You'll  have  a  headache  if  you  drink  any  more  wine," 
she  observed. 

"  Headache!  Do  you  think  a  man  whose  heart  is  being 
torn  to  shreds  by  red-hot  pincers  can  even  feel  a  headache  ?  " 
He  laughed  harshly. 

His  forcible  language  made  no  effect  on  Beechy,  hyper- 
bole is  the  natural  expression  of  his  kind.  But  his  laugh 
was  wild  and  his  face  very  white. 

"  If  he  should  get  to  the  theatre  drunk,"  she  reflected 
quite  without  horror,  "  there  would  be  a  row  and  he  would 
get  the  sack.  What  had  I  better  do?" 

"  A  headache!  "  he  repeated  with  scorn. 

"Well — at  all  events,"  she  retorted  adroitly,  "you  are 
being  very  greedy  and  not  giving  me  any." 

This  touched  his  mind  and  eagerly  he  filled  her 
glass. 

There  it  stood.  If  she  herself  drank  it,  what  would  hap- 
pen? The  bottle  was  empty  now  but  for  a  little,  and  that 
he  drank  thirstily. 

"Ebbene?     Don't  you  want  it?" 

She  hesitated. 

"  Because  if  you  don't — I  have  the  devil's  own  thirst  to- 
night  " 

Rapidly  her  brain  worked.     If  Landucci  got  drunk,  he 


WHY  HIS  FACE   WAS  SCRATCHED       71 

would  be  ruined.  If  she,  Beechy  got  drunk,  it  meant — 
she  could  go  up  to  bed  and  merely  pay  a  fine  for  missing 
a  performance. 

So  she  took  the  glass,  looked  at  it  with  a  funny  little 
smile  and  drained  it. 

"Bravo!"  Landucci  rose  with  a  loud  laugh.  "Well 
done.  Come  along, — it's  time — time  to  get  back  there " 

Beechy  followed  him  obediently.  Because  she  did  not  at 
once  stumble  and  fall  she  concluded  that  the  wine  was  not 
going  to  affect  her. 

They  walked  slowly  through  the  streets,  still  in  broad 
daylight,  and  then  Landucci's  voice  became  the  voice  of  a 
man  speaking  through  a  trumpet.  It  was  so  loud,  so 
resonant,  so  very,  very  queer.  No  one,  strangely  enough, 
turned  to  look  at  him,  and  this  surprised  Beechy. 

Then  she  forgot  his  voice  in  the  strangeness  of  finding 
that  the  street  was  paved  with  dough.  Her  feet  sank  into 
the  dough,  it  stuck  to  them,  they  stuck  to  it;  she  pulled 
and  shook  them  in  vain. 

Then  Landucci  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  with  a 
sudden  laugh  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  the  short  way  to 
the  theatre. 

"  Don't  bother  him,"  she  heard  him  say,  somewhere  miles 
away  as  he  laid  her  down.  "  He's  tired,  but  he'll  wake  up 
in  time  to  dress " 

Then  oblivion. 

When  oblivion  passed  away  in  great  shreds,  like  clouds 
after  rain,  letting  in  light  and  sight,  music  filled  the 
air. 

Beechy  sat  up  and  listened,  smiling  indulgently.  Then 
her  face  changed.  It  was  the  Toreador's  song!  Shr,  was 
too  late! 


72  BEECHY. 

They  were  there,  the  others,  at  Lillas  Pastia's,  the  quin- 
tette was  sung  and  what  could  it  have  been  without  her? 
Her  artistic  appreciation  of  her  own  value,  a  quality  so 
often  mistaken  for  conceit,  gave  her  a  little  shock.  The 
quintette,  without  any  high  notes  must  have  been  horrible, 
and  the  card  scene  was  coming  1 

Giving  herself  a  hard  shake  she  rose  and  made  her  way 
into  the  dressing-room  where  her  costume  hung. 

The  dresser,  an  old  woman  with  only  one  tooth,  grinned 
at  her.  "  Begun  young,  you  have,"  she  cried  jeeringly.  "f  The 
Materassi  tried  to  wake  you,  but  you  only  grinned  and  slept 
on " 

"  Shut  up,"  ordered  Beechy  unabashed,  "  and  help  me 
dress.  Thank  goodness  I  woke  up  in  time  for  the  fortune 
telling " 

Hastily  she  got  into  her  little  red  skirt  and  white  blouse 
an'd  pulled  the  blue  shawl  round  her  shoulders.  Her 
wig  went  on  with  a  jerk  and  a  dab  of  paint  on  each 
cheek  administered  with  hasty  skill,  completed  her  prepara- 
tions. 

She  was  just  going  out  when  the  door  opened  and 
Giacomini  came  in. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  "  why  were  you  so  late  ?  " 

"  Drunk,"  returned  Beechy,  kicking  off  her  boots  and 
holding  out  her  hand  for  her  high-heeled  slippers. 

He  laughed  a  little  shamefacedly,  for  not  only  did  h« 
not  believe  her,  but  he  thought  she  was  referring  to  an  in- 
creasing shortcoming  of  his  own. 

"  Little  beast,"  he  muttered.  "  I  say,  it's  hard  luck  for 
you  that  you  aren't  really  a  girl.  You'd  be  a  very  pretty 
one,  you  know." 

She  surveyed  herself  in  the  glass,  pulling  at  her  sleeves 


WHY  HIS  FACE   WAS  SCRATCHED       73 

and  adjusting  her  wig  with  the  frank  absorption  in  her  ap- 
pearance that  stage  people  all  seem  to  have. 

"Pretty,  should  I?    You  think  so,  old  Red-Nose?" 

Being  a  boy  had  decidedly  deteriorated  her  manners,  and 
her  vocabulary  was  nearly  as  rough  as  that  of  her  confreres. 

He  flushed  angrily.  "My  nose  isn't  red,"  he  retorted, 
"and  if  it  was " 

"  And  if  it  was,  your  wife  is  a  singer,  isn't  she,  so  you 
are  a  great  swell " 

She  pirouetted  on  her  heels  and  making  a  hideous  grimace 
at  him  tried  to  dash  past  to  the  door. 

But  he  was  extremely  angry  and  he  thought  her  only  a 
very  impertinent  little  boy. 

Catching  her  tightly  he  laid  her  over  his  knees  and  ad- 
ministered to  her  a  short,  sharp  spanking. 

"  Take  that,  you  little  swine,  and  that ,"  he  said,  and 

then  let  her  go,  with  a  laugh. 

But  she! 

At  that  moment  she  became  so  to  speak  a  girl.  All 
sorts  of  hitherto  unfelt  delicacies  sprang  into  life  in  her 
breast;  feminine  vanity,  feminine  pride,  feminine  helpless- 
ness set  her  raging. 

And  then — with  feminine  ringers  she  clawed  his  face, 
scoring  it  well  under  one  eye,  hurting  him  horribly,  nearly 
blinding  him  as,  all  unprepared  as  he  had  been  for  thz 
attack,  he  tried  to  disengage  himself. 

"  You  swine,  you  dog,  you "  uneditable  all  her 

epithets,  culled  from  a  choice  vocabulary  of  street  boys' 
language. 

She  left  him  dancing  with  pain  and  rage.  Incidentally, 
he  called  her  things  that  at  least  equalled  her  epithets,  but 
the  mischief  was  done. 


74  BEECHY 

Only  a  woman  thing  could  have  done  just  that;  a  man 
thing  would  have  gone  at  him  with  fists  or  feet,  and  the 
snarling,  high-pitched,  half-sobbing  voice  had  also  been 
that  of  a  woman. 

The  Singer-eater  wiped  his  face  with  a  checked  purple 
and  yellow  handkerchief,  and  powdered  it  tenderly. 

Then  he  went  round  to  the  wings.    He  had  a  plan. 


CHAPTER   XI 
WHY  BEECHY  BECAME  A  GIRL 

MEANTIME   Beechy  had   gone  on  to  sing  Mer- 
cedes'  solo,    that    lady   being  what   her   English 
prototype  would  have  styled  down  and  out  with 
toothache. 

"You  know  the  words,  don't  you?"  asked  the  stage 
manager,  wiping  his  harassed  brow. 

"  Si,  Signore  Direttore." 

That  was  all.  And  thus,  that  eventful  night,  Beechy 
sang  a  real  name-part. 

Her  immature,  shrill  voice  was  true,  and  she  knew  her 
lines  perfectly.  Things  went  well,  and  the  Maestri  of  the 
orchestra  smiled  up  at  her  encouragingly.  She  sang  so  hard 
that  she  nearly  burst.  Her  one  idea  was  to  be  heard,  and 
in  her  ignorance  shrieking  seemed  the  only  way  to  gain  her 
end.  So  she  shrieked.  She  also  thoroughly  enjoyed  her- 
self. 

It  happens  to  few  to  be  spanked  at  ten  o'clock  and 
promoted  to  a  name-role  at  eleven! 

When  her  duo  was  over  she  sat  on  a  sack  of  shav- 
ings and  looked  round. 

Everyone  had  a  good  word  for  her.  She  was  not  only 
popular  but  she  was  to  all  these  people  of  small  intense 
rivalries  beyond  the  pale  of  competition.  She  was  a  boy. 

But  to-night  more  than  one  looked  at  her  cunningly.  She 
was  thoroughly  feminine  even  in  expression  to-night. 

75 


76  BEECHY 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Mercedes,"  said  Morales,  now  a  gypsy, 
making  her  an  absurd  bow. 

"  Stow  it,"  answered  the  fair  one  vulgarly. 

Her  language  was  crude  but  she  was  remarkably  pretty, 
and — different  from  usual. 

Landucci  was  leading  badly,  his  face  as  white  as  paper, 
his  eyes  burning. 

He  looked  dangerous  and  Beechy  regretted  her  long  sleep. 
If  she  had  been  awake  she  might  have  kept  an  eye  on  him. 
"  I  do  hope  he  hasn't  had  any  more  wine,"  she  thought. 

Then  Escamillo  came  on  and  Jose's  despair  began.  The 
barley-sugar  tenor  was  a  good  actor,  and  there  was  no 
sugar  about  him  now. 

The  scene  between  the  two  men  (musically  one  of  the 
finest  in  the  opera)  went  on,  and  then  Carmen  interfered. 

At  this  point  Landucci  usually  began  to  smile  with  sat- 
isfaction, but  to-night  his  tense  face  did  not  relax.  Beechy 
watched  him  anxiously. 

Disaster  was  indeed  in  the  air. 

"  Look  at  the  director,"  she  whispered  to  Carmen  as 
that  troublous  person  sauntered  past  her  during  Jose's  short 
duologue  with  Mecaela,  "  doesn't  he  look  queer?  " 

"  He  always  does  look  queer,"  returned  the  woman  in- 
differently. "  Bici,  have  you  seen  my  husband  this  even- 
ing?" 

Beechy  laughed.     "  Si,  Signora !  " 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  "  Carmen  turned,  her  painted  eyes 
suddenly  alight  with  a  kind  of  hunger  of  suspicion. 

"  Whom  was  he  talking  to?    Not " 

"With  me"  Beechy  hastened  to  reassure  her,  and  the 
woman  sighed,  relieved. 

Beechy's  smile,  however,  hovered  on  her  lips  still. 


WHY  BEECHY  BECAME  A   GIRL         77 

"  Well — what  are  you  laughing  at  ?  " 

"  He — I  scratched  him.     Wait  till  you  see  his  face !  " 

"Scratched  him!    But  why?" 

"  He — struck  me."  Something  within  her  prevented  hei 
from  telling  the  whole  truth,  some  new  sense  of  indignity. 

Signora  Giacomini  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  she  pre- 
pared to  go  back  to  the  centre  of  the  stage.  "  Scratching 
is  a  woman's  trick,"  she  said,  with  light  disdain.  "Boys 
don't  do  it !  " 

Beechy  stuck  out  her  lip.  It  was  true.  Boys  hammered 
the  enemy  with  their  fists — hitherto,  in  her  not  unfrequent 
battles,  she  too  had  done  so,  or  even  butted,  goat-like. 

"  I  scratched,"  she  decided,  half-ashamed  of  her  sex,  "  be- 
cause I  am  a  girl.  Oh,  dear ! " 

Meantime,  everyone  on  the  stage  felt  vaguely  that  some- 
thing was  in  the  air,  something  ominous. 

Italians  are  extremely  sensitive  to  such  atmospheric  warn- 
ings. 

Beechy  worked  her  way  through  the  crowd  to  the  right 
and  watched  the  faces  of  the  chorus  people,  catching  a 
whisper  here  and  there. 

"Look  at  him "  "Santa  Madonna,  what  is  it?" 

"  If  I  were  the  tenor " 

The  tenor  had  started  away  with  Micaela,  the  crowd 
making  way  for  them, — and  thereby  it  seemed,  as  it  al- 
ways seemed,  that  if  they  hurried,  they  might  get  away 
before  Escamillo's  return,  and  all  the  subsequent  tragedy 
be  averted. 

Landucci  was  paler  than  ever  now,  and  his  hands  waved 
rather  vaguely  over  the  heads  of  his  men. 

"  I'll  get  him  home  at  once,"  Beechy  decided,  "  as  soon 
as  it's  over.  He  is  ill,  poor  Maestro." 


78  BEECHY 

"  Toreador " 

The  insolent,  triumphant  air  rang  out  from  the  left. 
Carmen  started  forward,  her  face  expressing  ecstatic  de- 
light. 

Jose  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  haggard,  des- 
perate— his  facial  expression,  Beechy  saw  with  a  shock  of 
sudden  terror,  the  counterpart  of  the  director's. 

Roughly  he  caught  the  woman  and  flung  her  down. 
"  Sei  mia,"  he  thundered.  "  Thou  art  mine " 

At  that  minute,  in  the  midst  of  the  music  a  pistol  shot 
rang  out,  the  tenor  flung  up  his  hands  and,  lurching  heav- 
ily forward,  fell. 

For  a  moment  the  musicians  played  on,  and  the  audience 
did  not  realise  what  had  happened.  Then  a  woman 
screamed,  someone  gave  a  loud  laugh,  the  music  clashed  and 
broke  off,  and  the  stage  was  filled  with  a  huddled,  wild- 
faced  crowd  in  the  centre  of  which  knelt  two  or  three 
people,  and  a  man's  voice  cried,  "  Is  there  a  doctor  in  the 
audience  ?  " 

Landucci  stood  still  in  his  place.  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  audience,  his  pistol  still  in  his  hand. 

"  E  mia,"  he  said  with  a  silly  laugh,  paraphrasing  Jose's 
last  words,  "  She  is  mine." 

The  confusion  was  indescribable,  and  in  the  midst  of  it 
a  small  thin  man  in  brown  clothes  hurried  down  the  aisle 
and  clambered  up  over  the  footlights.  The  doctor. 

The  orchestra  had  already  dispersed,  but  the  director 
still  stood  in  his  place,  looking  now  at  his  revolver,  then 
at  the  audience. 

As  the  curtain  went  down  two  men  in  long  black  cloaks 
and  cocked  hats  came  marching  down  the  middle  aisle,  every 
one  making  way  for  them.  Policemen. 


WHY  BEECHY  BECAME   A   GIRL         79 

Landucci's  quick  eyes  saw  them  and  he  pointed  his  pis- 
tol at  them.  They  paused. 

"  I  will  shoot  if  you  come  any  nearer,"  he  called, 
'distinctly.  "I  am  going  to  shoot  several  people  to- 
night  " 

The  theatre  was  by  this  time  nearly  empty. 

"  You  are  covered  from  the  stage,"  returned  the  quicker- 
witted  of  the  two  guardie.  "  If  you  shoot  you  will  be 
shot  from  behind " 

The  madman  hesitated  and  half  turned 

"  It  is  a  lie — there  is  no  one  there — and  she  is  mine 
now!" 

The  hubbub  behind  the  curtain  (on  which  was  de- 
picted a  moonlit  scene  on  Lake  Como — strangely  peaceful 
and  out  of  place  it  seemed)  had  subsided. 

The  men  of  law  consulted  rapidly.  Landucci  could  not! 
leave  the  theatre.  Whichever  exit  he  might  try  was 
guarded,  but  he  might  do  much  harm  with  his  pistol. 

Suddenly  from  the  left  the  great  curtain  stirred  as  if  a 
mild  earthquake  were  moving  the  marble  balcony  over  the 
lake,  and  a  small  white-faced  woman  came  out. 

"  Maestro,"  she  called  softly,  leaning  over  the  footlights. 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  it's  you — what  do  you  want?" 

"  I  want — will  you  help  me  down,  please  ?  " 

He  hesitated.     "What  do  you  want  to  do?" 

"  I  want  to  come  down." 

She  looked  very  small,  and  his  mazed  mind  seemed  to* 
grasp  the  fact  of  her  utter  helplessness. 

"  Yes,  I  will  help  you,  Bici, — you,  but  no  one  else." 

He  went  to  the  footlights,  stood  on  a  chair  and  held  out 
his  hands.  He  had  forgotten  the  guardie. 


8o  BEECHY 

"  Is  he  dead  ? "  he  asked  cunningly,  and  she  answered 
with  a  grave,  unmoved  face: 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  dead.  Don't  let  me  fall — Oh — please 
put  down  that  thing ! " 

He  frowned  and  drew  back.  "  No,  oh,  no,  I  won't  put 
it  down,  don't  be  afraid  of  it " 

She  leaned  down  and  put  her  hands,  trumpet-wise,  to 
her  mouth.  "  You  know,"  she  whispered,  "  I  am  really  a 
girl!" 

Landucci  burst  out  laughing,  and  laid  his  pistol  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  stage.  "  So  you  are,  poverina,"  he  cried, 
uproariously.  "  I  had  forgotten.  Well,  come  along " 

A  minute  later  and  he  was  held  and  bound  by  the  guardie 
and  Beechy  sat  huddled  on  the  floor  by  the  big  drum,  crying 
as  she  had  never  cried  in  her  life,  shaken  and  trembling, 
and  as  feminine  a  creature  as  ever  was  born. 

When  the  poor  man  had  been  taken  away  she  crept  back 
up  on  to  the  stage  and  went  behind  the  curtain.  The  tenor, 
dead,  lay  where  he  had  fallen,  several  people  standing  round 
him.  Carmen,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  the  stage  man- 
ager, Frasquita  who  had  been  in  a  dead  faint,  and  whose 
red  hair  was  dark  with  water,  the  doctor  and  one  or  two 
others. 

Beechy  never  forgot  the  picture;  the  dirty  stage  with  its 
coarsely  painted  rocks  and  trees;  the  camp-fire  still  glowing 
like  a  ruby  under  its  painted  fuel;  the  sacks  and  boxes  of 
the  smugglers,  the  Toreador's  cloak  lying  in  a  heap  where 
he  had  in  his  horror  dropped  it,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
stage,  the  pitifully  small  body  of  the  dead  man  in  his  green 
velvet  suit,  his  painted  face  stiff  with  horror. 

"  Has — he  gone  ?  "  whispered  Frasquita,  her  lip  shaking. 
Beechy  nodded.  "  Yes,  the  guardie  took  him.  Oh,  how 


WHY  BEECHY  BECAME   A    GIRL         81 

awful  it  is."     She  crossed  herself  as  she  looked  at  the  dead 
man.     "What  had  they  quarrelled  about?" 

Carmen  shuddered  and  laid  her  face  against  her  hus- 
band's arm. 

"  Hush,"  said  the  stage  manager,  sharply.  "  You  had 
all  better  go,  Signora  Giacomini " 

She  nodded  and,  taking  Beechy's  hand,  the  three  walked 
away,  towards  her  dressing-room. 

Everyone  else  had  gone,  for  Italians  do  not  like  tragedy 
and  have  none  of  the  morbid  excitement  of  an  English 
crowd. 

Beechy  sat  down  and  began  to  cry,  silently,  without 
grimaces,  big  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Don't  dear,"  said  Carmen  kindly,  taking  off  her  jacket. 
"  It  can't  help " 

"But  why  did  he  do  it?"  persisted  the  child,  "dear, 
good  Maestro!  Why?" 

The  woman  paused  as  she  stepped  out  of  her  skirt,  and 
glanced  at  her  husband. 

"  Mad,  dear." 

"  Poor  Maestro  Landucci,"  declared  the  Singer-eater,  with 
vanity,  "  had  the  misfortune  to — love  my  wife.  And  he 
was  jealous." 

Beechy  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes.     "  Oh !  " 

"  Yes.  And  poor  Mascheroni, — he  always  hated  him 
because  my  Signora  in  the  opera,  loved  him.  I  mean " 

"  Oh  hush,  Nino,"  protested  Maria  Giacomini.  "  What 
is  the  use  of  telling  him !  He's  too  young  to  understand." 

"  No,  I'm  not,  Signora.  I  do  understand.  He  was  mad 
with  jealousy,  really,  the  way  the  poor  tenor  was  as  Don 
Jose.  Oh,  poveretto,  poverettol  What  will  they  do  to 
him?" 


82  BEECHY 

Giacomini,  whose  scratched  face  hurt  him,  came  near  the 
child. 

"They  will  let  him  off  for  a  crime  of  passion,  or 
they  will  shut  him  up  as  a  lunatic, — Signorina"  he  said 
slowly. 

Beechy  started.  The  man  had  lent  a  very  marked  signi- 
ficance to  his  last  word. 

"  Do  you  understand,  Signorina  ?  "  he  added. 

His  wife,  who  was  cleaning  the  grease  from  her  face  with 
cold  cream,  paid  no  heed.  To  her  he  was  teasing  a  boy  by 
referring  to  the  girl's  clothes  he  wore. 

But  Beechy  knew  that  she  was  discovered. 

"At  the  trial,"  pursued  the  man,  licking  his  lips  with 
enjoyment,  "you  will  be  an  important  witness;  you  knew 
the  murderer  well;  you  lived  in  the  same  house  with  him; 
you  dined  with  him  this  very  evening, — or  last  night,  for 
it  is  now  after  midnight.  If  you  prove  that  he  is  sane, — • 
Good-night!  "  He  made  a  gesture  signifying  that  it  would 
be  the  end  of  all  things  for  Landucci.  "And — you  will  be 
an  interesting  witness  for  many  reasons" 

Beechy  watched  him  with  fascinated  loathing  as  he  went 
on. 

"  '  The  boy  Bici,'  will  be  in  all  the  papers — '  the  boy 
Bid'  Signorina !  " 

Suddenly  she  was  seized  with  a  perfectly  unreasoning 
terror.  The  trial,  the  newspapers,  the  badgering  people — 
above  all  this  horrible  leering  man  with  the  scratched  face. 
They  would  all  know  that  she  was  a  girl,  for  he  would 
tell. 

And  a  blinding  rush  of  shame  of  her  travesty  came  over 
her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  a  monstrous  thing,  that 
it  was  disgraceful  to  be  a  girl  and  wear  a  boy's  clothes. 


WHY  BEECHY   BECAME   A    GIRL         83 

For  the  second  time  that  night  she  felt  herself  a  woman 
and  this  time  the  realisation  had  come  to  stay. 

Without  a  word  she  left  the  room  and  hurrying  into  the 
clothes  that  she  now  blushed  to  wear,  she  crept  past  the 
hunchback  at  the  door  and  once  in  the  street  ran  as  hard  as 
she  could  run,  away  from  the  direction  of  the  Two  Queens. 
The  horror  of  the  morrow  was  too  great  to  be  borne,  so 
she  would  not  bear  it. 

It  was  striking  one  when  she  reached  the  Church  of  Saint 
Franceschino.  The  two  great  doors  were  closed,  but  to  the 
right  was  a  small  wicket  in  a  dusty  old  stone  wall.  And  a 
rusty  bell-wire  hung  by  the  wicket.  Far  away  she  heard 
the  little  tinkle.  Then  she  waited.  She  waited  for  a  long 
time,  and  pulled  twice  again  before  the  wicket  opened  and 
an  old  woman  in  a  short  skirt  and  a  purple  jacket  asked 
her  what  she  wanted. 

"  I  must  see  Father  Antonio " 

"  Is  it  for  the  Sacrament?  " 

To  have  said  yes  would  have  been  a  bad  lie.  So  she  told 
a  good  lie  instead. 

"  No,  but  it  is — about  a  death.     A  confession, " 

The  old  woman  who  was  the  priest's  cousin  and  servant, 
looked  very  cross,  but  her  orders  were  strict,  so  Beechy  was 
led  across  the  little  sleeping  garden,  that  smelt  of  violets,  to 
the  house,  and  told  to  wait  in  a  bare  room  adorned  by  a 
glaring  chromolithograph  of  His  Holiness  Leo  XIII. 

The  vast  grin  of  that  clever  man  at  first  interested,  then 
rather  appalled  her.  "  He  looks  like  a  baboon,"  she 
thought,  irreverently,  adding  "  God  forgive  me." 

Father  Antonio,  when  he  came  in,  found  her  standing 
with  her  arms  folded,  her  head  bent,  a  Napoleonic  attitude 
that  was  natural  to  her. 


84  BEECHY 

"  So  you  have  come  back,"  the  old  man  said  gently,  rec- 
ognising her  with  surprise.  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you 
are  still  wearing  trousers." 

Beechy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  let  me  stay  here  for  a  day 
or  two,"  she  said  simply.  "  I — I  am  tired  of  being  a  boy. 
I  am  going  to  be  a  girl  now." 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  ORPHANS 

THE  instinctive  evasion  of  unpleasantnesses  and  diffi- 
culties was  as  deep-seated  in  Beatrice  Cavaleone  as 
was  the  habit  of  breathing.  She  was  no  coward,  as 
her  going  to  Landucci  when  he  had  a  revolver  in  his  hand, 
has  proved.  She  had  in  her  earlier  days  gone  hungry  to  bed 
without  a  word  of  complaint,  envy  was  unknown  to  her,  the 
contemplation  of  beautifully-dressed,  well-fed  children 
awoke  in  her  only  a  sense  of  artistic  pleasure.  Forgiveness 
came  to  her  with  no  effort  whatsoever,  and  nothing  she 
could  do  for  those  she  loved  (and  she  loved  many  people) 
was  any  trouble  to  her.  She  had  her  good  points.  But  if 
an  unpleasant  situation  could  be  evaded,  she  evaded  it,  con- 
scienceless and  content.  In  this  matter  of  the  inquest  and 
trial  she  would  have  done  her  part  not  only  with  scrupulous 
correctness,  but  also  with  a  sort  of  grim  enjoyment,  for  it 
would  have  been  an  experience,  and  her  eager  mind  was 
hungry  for  experiences.  She  would  have  testified,  given  up 
her  time,  without  a  murmur,  had  it  been  a  question  of  the 
boy  Bid. 

But  Giacomini  had  showed  her  that  the  matter  was  not 
so  simple.  Not  only  the  boy  Bici,  the  hard-skulled  news- 
paper-vendor with  his  ready  wit  and  store  of  forcible  lan- 
guage, would  be  questioned  and  badgered;  he  could  have 
borne  it  all  with  more  than  equanimity. 

85 


86  BEECHY 

But  that  new  person,  the  girl  Beechy,  how  could  she 
endure  it? 

She  would  suffer  in  her  strange  girl-feelings,  incompre- 
hensible to  their  owner;  she  would  feel  all  hot  in  the  cheeks 
as  she  had  when  that  dog  of  a  Giacomini  had  spanked 
her. 

It  was  a  strange  thing,  the  boy  Bici  had  been  knocked 
about  by  other  boys — there  was  one  battle  in  the  Piazza 
Navona  the  evening  of  Epiphany  out  of  which  the  boy 
Bici  had  emerged  with  an  awful  eye  and  a  cut  lip.  She 
had  been  beaten  then,  and  she  had  been  angry  and  longed 
for  revenge.  But  her  feelings  then  had  been  quite  different 
from  those  which  lent  sharpness  to  her  nails  after  the  spank- 
ing affair. 

It  was  all  a  puzzle;  but  one  thing  was  plain:  the  new 
creature,  the  girl,  could  not  and  would  not  go  through  the 
horrors  of  the  inquest  and  trial.  So  she  had  come  to  Father 
Antonio,  intending  to  stay,  if  he  would  allow  her,  for  three 
days. 

She  stayed  many  months. 

That  is,  she  spent  more  than  a  year  in  the  neighbouring 
convent  of  San  Franceschino,  and  as  the  gardens  of  the 
convent  opened  into  the  priest's  garden,  never  a  day  passed 
that  she  did  not  see  the  good  old  man  and  the  sour-worded, 
kind-hearted  old  Assunta,  his  servant. 

It  came  about  very  simply,  as  strange  things  were  always 
to  come  to  Beechy. 

The  morning  after  her  arrival  at  his  house,  Father 
Antonio  sent  Assunta  out  to  buy  proper  clothes  for  his 
guest. 

The  old  woman,  grumbling  under  her  breath  (for  her 
cousin  and  master  had  an  awful  way  of  silencing  her  and 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   ORPHANS          87 

bringing  shame  to  her  by  quoting  the  New  Testament  to 
her)  departed,  a  large  basket  on  her  arm. 

Beechy  wandered  round  the  little  garden,  in  which  hya- 
cinths were  beginning  to  dig  their  way  up  to  the  sunlight, 
and  waited. 

Father  Antonio  was  saying  mass,  and  the  child  was 
quite  alone. 

It  was  a  mild  day  that  smelt  of  spring.  In  one  corner 
of  the  garden  lilies-of-the-valley  were  coming,  and  birds 
flew  against  the  bright  blue  of  the  sky.  A  day  that  brings 
song  naturally  to  the  throat,  and  laughter  to  the  lips. 

Poor  Maestro!  Beechy  walked  up  and  down,  her  arms 
folded,  thinking  of  her  friend  and  his  probable  fate.  If 
things  went  badly,  if  any  doubt  grew  in  the  minds  of  those 
responsible  for  his  future,  then  she  must  go  and  help,  feel- 
ings or  no  feelings.  She  remembered  many  things  that  had 
happened  of  late,  things  that  might  go  to  prove  the  poor 
man  to  be  of  unsound  mind. 

Ah  yes,  if  she  could  help  him  she  would  go.  But  if  she 
could  not  help  him,  why  should  she  leave  this  lovely  quiet 
place  that  seemed  so  well  to  suit  the  new  Beechy? 

To  her  mind  it  was  perfectly  logical  and  perfectly  fair. 

The  quiet  of  the  old,  world-forgotten  Piazza  was  very 
soothing  to  her  tired  nerves;  from  the  church — a  delightful 
church  unvisited  by  tourists,  for  it  held  no  art  treasures, 
and  no  remnants  of  saintly  humanity — came  the  drone  of  the 
organ;  in  the  Piazza  stood  tall  red  houses  inhabited  by 
decent  poor  people.  Children  played  in  the  broad  open 
space,  not  even  cabs  disturbed  the  silence,  for  the  place  was 
no  thoroughfare,  and  there  was  nothing  to  see  in  it.  A  lost 
corner  of  the  world;  a  backwater  of  life. 

Beechy  knelt  by  a  flower  bed  and  sniffed  at  the  hya- 


88  BEECHY 

cinths.  They  smelt  more  of  damp  earth  than  of  anything 
else,  for  their  bells  were  still  rolled  tightly  together,  and 
their  colours  were  veiled  and  chill. 

Still  they  smelt  of  spring.     Everything  smelt  of  spring. 

Beechy  rose  and  to  express  her  feelings  turned  half  a 
dozen  somersaults.  Then  she  walked  on  her  hands. 

It  was  in  this  attitude,  as  she  waved  her  clumsily  booted 
feet  joyously  in  the  air  that  the  horror-stricken  old  Assunta 
found  her  on  her  return. 

"  Santissima  Madonna !  Verily,  I  believe  you  are  pos- 
sessed," the  old  woman  said,  setting  down  her  basket  and 
locking  the  gate.  "  It  is  a  scandal.  Suppose  one  of  the 
good  Sisters  should  see  you ! " 

Beechy,  right  side  up,  rubbed  her  hands  together  and 
turned  round.  "  One  of  the  good  Sisters?" 

"  Yes.  In  the  Convent.  Holy  ladies  who  teach  poor 
children  and  pray  for — the  unregenerate." 

"Like  me!  Then  that  is  a  convent?  Well — I  won't 
do  it  again,  only,  Assunta,  dear,"  she  picked  up  the  basket 
and  laid  her  arm  over  the  old  woman's  bent  shoulders,  "  you 
have  no  idea  what  a  relief  to  one's  feelings  it  is  to  walk  on 
one's  hands !  " 

When  Father  Antonio  came  in  for  his  frugal  breakfast, 
he  found  a  tall  girl  in  an  ill-fitting,  bright  blue  woollen 
frock,  sitting  in  the  garden. 

Beechy  had  looked  far  better  in  her  boy's  clothes,  for  the 
blue  frock  was  very  hideous  indeed. 

Also  she  stumbled  over  the  skirt  which  was  too  long,  and 
sitting  in  boyish  attitudes  gave  her  a  very  queer  look. 

But  Father  Antonio  was  much  pleased  with  the  change. 

Why  she  had  come  he  did  not  know.  He  had  asked  no 
questions,  possibly  because  he  was  learned  in  the  matter  of 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   ORPHANS          89 

getting  information  from  women,  and  as  yet  she  had  said 
nothing. 

At  about  four  o'clock,  when  he  called  her,  he  found  that 
she  had  disappeared. 

She  had  taken  the  hat  Assunta  had  brought  her,  a  brown 
straw  sailor,  and  gone  out  to  buy  a  newspaper. 

She  got  one  without  any  difficulty,  and  holding  up  her 
skirts  in  a  laughably  clumsy  way,  hurried  home. 

Afraid  to  take  the  paper  into  the  house,  she  tucked  up 
her  offending  and  senseless  skirt  and  climbed  into  a  tall  tree 
that  grew  near  the  convent  wall. 

At  almost  the  first  words  she  closed  her  eyes  and  clung 
hard  to  the  branch  on  which  she  was  perched. 

Landucci  was  dead.  On  his  way  to  the  police-station 
he  had  poisoned  himself  with  some  stuff  he  had  had  in  his 
pocket. 

"  Mad,  or  not  mad?"  the  paper  asked,  going  into  the 
matter  at  some  length. 

Beechy,  sick  with  horror,  wondered.  He  had  been  in 
love  with  the  Giacomini.  And  he  had  hated  his  own  wife. 
He  was  jealous.  He  had  prepared  the  poison,  he  had  de- 
liberately shot  the  man  while  in  a  position  that  absolutely 
prohibited  his  escape. 

"Not  mad,"  decided  the  child.  "If  he  had  been,  he 
wouldn't  have  got  the  poison."  And  she  never  changed  her 
mind. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  there  among  the  young  leaves 
afraid  to  move.  Landucci  had  been  good  to  her  and  she 
had  seen  the  horror  of  his  life,  and  she  had  loved  him. 
Her  father  had  gone,  and  her  friend  had  gone.  The  world 
for  about  ten  minutes  seemed  a  very  dreadful  place  to  her. 

Then,   suddenly,   a   sound    of  singing   came   to   her;   a 


90  BEECHY 

quaint,  quiet  singing;  a  simple  unadorned  air,  many  voices, 
yet  strangely  without  body.  For  a  moment  the  sound  added 
a  new  terror  to  things,  and  then  she  realised  why  it  was 
strange. 

There  was  no  orchestra,  and  the  voices  were  all  children's. 
Plaintively  cheerful  it  was,  real  music  of  orphans. 

"  Our  little  hearts  we  bring  them, 
Oh,  Mary  dear,  to  thee " 

Beechy's  brows  untied  and  her  mouth  softened.  Then, 
very  cautiously,  she  climbed  higher  and  looked  down  into 
the  garden  of  the  convent. 

Forty  odd  little  girls  stood  in  two  rows  in  the  evening 
light,  behind  long  narrow  tables  on  which  at  regular  inter- 
vals stood  coarse  brown  bowls  of  milk,  each  flanked  by  a 
hunch  of  grey  bread. 

They  wore  ugly  little  grey  frocks  and  white  caps  under 
which  their  serious  eyes  looked  very  sweet,  and  their  eighty 
odd  little  hands  were  neatly  folded  as  they  sang  their  grace 
before  meat: 

"  Oh,  Mary  dear,  we  thank  thee 
For  all  Thy  sweet  bountee " 

It  was  quite  a  delightful  picture,  and  Beechy  laughed 
aloud  with  appreciative  delight. 

"  Little  dears,"  she  said,  "  how  quaint  they  are !  " 

Two  young  nuns  stood  at  each  table,  and  when  the  grace 
was  ended  the  children  sat  quietly  down  and  dipped  their 
big  spoons  into  their  milk. 

Beechy's  mind,  thoroughly  feminised  by  the  innocent 
spectacle,  flew  back  to  the  Two  Queens. 


THE  CALL   OF   THE   ORPHANS          91 

"  Oh,  my  cradle,"  she  thought,  sick  for  home,  "  I  want 
my  cradle." 

An  hour  later  as  Father  Antonio  sat  dozing  over  his 
rosary  Beechy  came  in. 

The  room  was  small,  floored  with  well-oiled  dark  brick, 
and  contained,  beside  two  straw-bottomed  chairs,  only  a 
table,  covered  with  a  neat  red  and  white  cover,  a  chest  of 
drawers  on  which  stood  two  piles  of  books  and  a  white  wax 
crucifix  twinkling  with  mica,  under  a  glass  case.  On  the 
wall  hung  an  engraving  of  the  Pope,  a  rather  good  copy 
of  Guido  Rent's  Ecce  Homo,  and  a  water-colour  sketch  of 
the  Cathedral  of  Siena.  A  bare  and  clean  little  room,  its 
open  door  and  window  looking  into  the  garden  that  spring 
had  already  smiled  on. 

The  old  priest's  fine  head  stood  out  against  the  square 
of  light  that  was  the  window,  his  diaphanous  hands  folded 
on  his  lap  round  the  forgotten  rosary.  A  good  man  full  of 
years. 

"Padre!" 

He  started,  his  big  steel-rimmed  glasses  sliding  down  his 
long  nose. 

"  Yes?    Yes?    What  is  it,  my  daughter?" 

Beechy  stood  awkwardly  in  the  doorway,  her  ungainly 
gown  hanging  stiffly  round  her. 

"  Father,  I  have  been  listening  to  the  children  sing.  To 
the  little  orphans  in  the  convent  garden." 

"Yes,  my  child?" 

Cautiously,  that  she  might  not  fall,  she  scratched  one 
leg  with  the  toe  of  her  other  boot. 

"  I — I  like  orphans,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  right.    We  should  all  love  orphans " 

"  Besides,  I  am  one  myself." 


92  'BEECHY 

"Yes?" 

The  old  man  was  tired,  and  did  not  quite  guess  her 
meaning,  but  his  kindness  was  unfailing. 

Beechy  looked  (with  sincerest  admiration)  at  the  glisten- 
ing crucifix  with  its  ornament  of  ivy  leaves. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  went  on  slowly,  "  that  perhaps 
the  good  sisters  would  allow  me  to  go  and  play  with  the 
orphans — with  the  very  little  ones." 

Father  Antonio  murmured  a  hasty  prayer  of  thanks  for 
this  simple  elucidation  of  his  problem  of  what  to  do  with  his 
strange  guest. 

"  I  will  ask  the  Mother  Superior,"  he  declared,  taking  a 
large  pinch  of  snuff  from  an  old  tortoise-shell  box,  and 
sneezing  into  his  red  handkerchief.  "  I  will  go  at  once." 

Beechy  stood  watching  his  tall,  bent  figure  as  it  crossed 
the  garden  and  went  into  the  precincts  of  the  convent,  to 
which  he  was  a  confessor. 

The  dramatic  contrast  of  her  present  environment  to  the 
one  she  had  just  left  was  felt  by  the  girl  in  every  fibre. 

The  terrible  event  of  the  night  before  had  unnerved  her 
as  much  as  things  were  ever  to  upset  her,  and  the  simple 
peace  of  the  scene  of  the  orphans'  supper  appealed  very 
strongly  to  her. 

The  theatre  seemed  a  thing  obnoxious  and  too  far  away 
even  to  approach  again.  The  evils  of  it  stared  at  her,  the 
beauties  were  dulled,  effaced  by  the  sordid  tragedy  that  was 
its  outcome.  Only  artists  can  understand  how  eagerly  her 
mind  embraced  the  new  idea  that  appealed  to  her.  Had  it 
been  possible  for  her  to  take  eternal  cloistral  vows  that  even- 
ing, she  would  have  taken  them ;  the  only  life  possible  seemed 
the  life  between  high  walls,  the  only  friends  these  quiet  re- 
ligious people,  the  only  music  the  hymns  of  the  little  orphans. 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   ORPHANS          93 

The  old  man  was  a  long  time  away.  When  he  came 
back  she  ran  to  meet  him.  "Will  they  have  me?  Will 
they  let  me  come  ?  "  she  cried. 

He  smiled,  a  little  sadly,  for  human  nature  is  much  the 
same  wherever  one  finds  it,  and  the  simple  old  man  had  seen 
much. 

"  We  shall  see.  You  are  to  stay  here,  my  guest,  for  a 
week,  and  go  every  day  to  the  good  Sisters.  Then,  at  the 
end  of  the  time,  if  you  have  pleased  them, — you  are  to  go  to 
them  for  a  while — until — until — we  shall  see,"  he  repeated, 
vaguely. 

The  sun  was  going  and  long  cool  shadows  crept  across 
the  garden.  Suddenly  the  evening  bells  began  to  ring  all 
over  Rome,  soft  in  the  mellow  air. 

"Angelus  Domini," — chanted  the  orphans. 

Beechy  crossed  herself  hurriedly  and  then  passing  the  old 
man  as  he  hurried  towards  his  church,  and  opened  the  door 
he  had  just  closed. 

The  garden  was  full  of  the  little  grey-clad  creatures, 
their  caps  spotless  and  upturne'd  like  so  many  white  sweet- 
pea  blossoms. 

"  Et  concepit  de  Spiritu  Sancto " 

Beechy  knew  her  prayers,  for  Signora  Marianna,  the  pub- 
lican's wife,  ha'd  taught  her.  The  hour  and  the  place  cast 
their  spell  over  her,  and  her  dark  head  bent  over  her  folded 
hands.  She  prayed  with  the  orphans,  under  the  approving 
eye  of  the  young  nuns  in  charge. 

"  Ecce  Ancilla   Domini ; 
Fiat  mihi  secundum  verbum  tuum n 

Thus  Beatrice  Cavaleone  began  her  convent  life. 


CHAPTER   XIII 
IN  THE  CONVENT 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Beatrice  Cavaleone  that  a  plan 
should  at  once  have  created  itself  for  her  in  the  convent 
of  San  Franceschino.  She  wished  to  go  and  stay  with 
the  orphans,  and,  a  week  from  the  evening  when  their  little 
peaceful  voices  made  their  appeal  to  her  imagination,  she 
was  installed  in  the  cleanest  of  small  rooms  (nearly  as 
good,  she  thought,  as  a  cell),  up  at  the  top  of  the  vast  cold 
building. 

Mother  Maria  Maddalena,  her  faculty  complete,  would, 
but  for  the  charity  incumbent  on  her  position,  have  given  a 
direct  negative  answer  to  the  old  priest's  appeal,  but  she 
was  a  good  woman,  and  had  promised  to  see  the  child. 

"  She  is  too  old  to  come  to  us  as  an  orphan,"  she  said, 
"  but — perhaps  we  can  give  her  work.  We  will  try,  Padre 
Antonio " 

But,  as  she  stood  by  her  window  listening  to  the  Ave 
Maria  of  her  charges,  she  glanced  beyond  them  and  beheld 
the  interloper  just  within  the  gate.  And  the  interloper  pos- 
sessed the  invaluable  quality  of  graceful  adaptability,  so  that 
she  fitted  into  the  picture  as  well  even  as  the  little  nuns 
with  their  round  empty  faces,  or  the  small  orphans  them- 
selves. 

It  seemed  that  a  tall  child  in  a  hideous  blue  frock  had 
always  stood  there  by  the  old  brick  wall,  her  black  head 

94 


IN   THE   CONVENT  95 

bent,  her  lips  reverently  framing  the  words  of  the  prayer. 
Mother  Maria  Maddalena's  heart  warmed. 

"  Poverina, — poor  little  motherless  child — and  she  has 
been  well  brought  up,  she  knows  the  prayer " 

So  Beechy  was  asked  to  go  in  to  see  the  Reverend  Mother 
and  clumped  down  the  cold  passage  to  the  Reverend 
Mother's  room. 

"Your  name?" 

"  Beatrice  Cavaleone." 

"Cavaleone?     Not  the  Cavaleone?" 

"  I  don't  know.  My  father  is  dead,  and  so  is  my 
mother." 

"  What  was  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"Giulio,  Mother." 

"And  your  mother's?" 

"  My  mother's  name  was  Smiss  and  she  was  English." 

"  Smiss.     I  do  not  know  the  name.     How  old  are  you?  " 

"Twelve." 

The  gentle  interrogation  went  on.  It  grew  dark  and  a 
lay  Sister,  who  had  had  chilblains  all  winter  and  whose  walk 
was  a  ceaseless  shuffle,  brought  in  a  lamp. 

"  When  the  children  go  for  walks  with  two  of  the  Sisters 
you  might  go  with  them,  and  walk  in  the  middle  of  the 
line " 

The  Mother  Superior  hesitated,  for  this  office  that  she 
was  inventing  was  entirely  a  superogatory  one,  and  she 
knew  it. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Beechy  eagerly,  "  I  could  pick  them  up 
if  they  fell  down." 

"  They  never  fall  down,"  returned  the  Mother  Superior, 
a  little  regretfully.  "  But  if  you  went,  Sister  Ippolita  who 
walks  along  the  line,  might  stay  at  home " 


96  BEECHY 

"  Yes.     And  then  I  could  do  lots  of  things  here." 

"  Can  you  pare  potatoes?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Beechy  boldly.  She  had  never  in  her 
life  peeled  a  potato,  but  she  felt  within  herself  an  undoubted 
capacity  for  that  branch  of  labour. 

"  Can  you  sweep  ?  " 

"Yes.     And  I  can  wash  windows  like  anything." 

This  she  knew  to  be  true,  for  she  had  kept  her  own  small 
window  at  the  Two  Queens  as  bright  as  ever  a  window 
could  be,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  she  liked  to  be  able 
to  see  out. 

"  And  I  can  sing,  Reverend  Mother, — I  can  teach  them 
songs " 

Mother  Maria  Maddalena  laughed  and  waved  away  the 
suggestion  with  a  mildly  horrified  fat  hand. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear.  They  sing  only  hymns,  and  those 
the  dear  Sisters  teach  them.  If,  later,  you  should  have  a 
vocation " 

But  Beechy  shook  her  head.  "  Oh,  no,  I  shall  never  want 
to  be  a  nun." 

So  she  was  taken  in,  so  to  speak  as  "  odd  girl  " — her 
work  was  to  do  anything  that  turned  up,  an'd  she  proved 
entirely  satisfactory  in  her  new  role.  Perhaps  one  reason 
for  this  was  that  the  role  gradually  adapted  itself  to  her, 
instead  of  her  being  obliged  to  adapt  herself  to  it. 

She  liked  to  sweep.  It  is,  indeed,  a  fine  exercise,  giving, 
once  the  arms  are  used  to  it,  a  glorious  expansion  to  the 
chest,  and  a  fine  sensation  of  deep  breathing.  So  she  swept 
much.  Washing  windows,  too,  scrubbing  at  the  panes  un- 
til they  glistened,  was  not  unpleasant. 

But  washing  clothes  she  did  not  like,  and  though  she 
never  objected  verbally  to  doing  it,  it  soon  came  about,  no 


IN   THE   CONVENT  97 

one  quite  knew  how,  that  the  washing  of  clothes  was  not 
one  of  her  duties.  Shaking  and  beating  strips  of  carpet 
would  not  be  bad,  for  it  is  a  rough,  boyish  exercise,  but  the 
dust  makes  one  sneeze  and  one's  eyes  water  after  it.  Beechy 
beat  carpets  three  times,  after  which  that  department  of 
work  reverted  to  its  former  incumbent,  one  of  the  lay 
Sisters. 

Digging  in  the  garden  with  Sister  Gismonda  and  Sister 
Ludovica,  brown,  rough,  laughing  peasant  women,  was  the 
greatest  of  fun,  so  all  summer  Beechy  worked  in  the  brown 
earth,  planted  it,  and  laboured  it  to  grow. 

Also,  for  her  slim  hands  were  deft,  and  her  taste  good, 
all  the  flowers  for  the  altars  were  arranged  in  their  cheap 
white  and  gilt  vases  by  her.  It  was  delightful  to  get  up 
early  in  the  coolness  of  the  morning  and,  in  the  still  shadowy 
garden,  to  cut  the  sleeping  flowers. 

Then,  the  vases  filled  with  fresh  water  and  standing  in  a 
row  on  the  table  in  the  refectory,  she  carried  in  her  baskets, 
and  set  to  work. 

It  was  a  long  job,  for  she  had  the  church  altars  as  well 
as  the  convent  chapel  to  adorn,  and  in  the  garden  itself  there 
was  a  grotto  made  of  artlessly  artificial  rock- work,  in  which 
stood  a  different  statuette  for  each  month,  before  which 
flowers  must  bloom. 

The  Mary  month,  May,  was  the  best,  but  in  June  came 
a  little  Saint  Joseph  in  a  splendid  scarlet  cloak,  July  had 
Christ  with  the  sacred  heart  glowing  in  His  torn  breast, 
and  all  the  other  months  had  their  saints. 

The  summer  flew,  each  warm  languorous  day  full  of 
hours,  but  the  season,  looked  back  upon,  having  gone  in  a 
flash.  Winter  came  and  went,  and  summer  again.  Beechy, 
dressed  like  the  orphans,  in  rough  grey  stuff,  but  without  a 


98  BEECHY 

cap,  was  as  busy  as  the  day  is  long.  She  loved  the  children, 
some  of  whom  were  not  more  than  two  years  old,  and  they 
loved  her.  Once  one  little  girl  was  very  ill,  and  cried  for 
Beechy.  The  nun  in  charge  of  her  did  her  best  to  comfort 
the  little  thing,  but  in  vain,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
Beechy  was  roused  and  bidden  to  come. 

"  Sing  to  me,  Bici,"  moaned  the  sick  child. 

So  Beechy  sang,  and  after  that  was  attached  as  a  kind 
of  under-nurse  to  the  case. 

In  September,  after  nearly  six  weeks  of  illness,  the  child 
died,  and  there  was  a  little  pathetic  funeral,  the  cheap  white 
coffin  followed  by  a  string  of  weeping  children  to  the  old 
cemetery  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Beechy  never  forgot  the 
funeral;  the  long  tramp  in  the  blazing  sun,  the  bared  heads 
of  the  passers-by,  the  gleaming  light  on  the  coffin. 

Sister  Arduina,  the  organist,  asked  a  little  later  in  the 
year  permission  to  give  Beechy  singing  lessons. 

The  Mother  Superior  assented. 

One  day  in  her  second  November  in  the  convent,  when 
the  last  roses  in  the  garden  were  subject  to  temporary  oblit- 
eration of  leaves  falling  from  the  plane-trees,  Beechy  went 
into  the  organ-loft  where  flat-nosed  Sister  Arduina  was 
awaiting  her. 

She  had  sung,  of  course,  all  along,  with  the  others,  but 
the  organist-Sister  had  a  plan  for  making  her  sing  solos. 

"  At  Christmas  we  might  have  a  real  bit  of  oratorio. 
And  you  could  sing  the  soprano  part." 

"  Yes,"  said  Beechy,  her  thumbs  stuck  into  her  belt. 

"  How  high  can  you  sing?  " 

"B  flat." 

Sister  Arduina  opened  her  eyes  very  round. 

"You  mustn't  boast,"  she  admonished. 


IN    THE   CONSENT  99 

"  I'm  not  boasting.     Give  me  the  middle  b." 

The  nun  did  so,  and  Beechy  struck  the  eighth  higher 
with  great  ease  though  some  shrillness. 

"Goodl     Now  sing  a  scale." 

Beechy  obeyed.  It  was  extraordinary  how  easily  the  child 
had  learned  obedience,  after  the  rough  independence  she  had 
had  after  her  father's  death.  It  is,  however,  a  fact  that 
obedience  in  indifferent  matters. is  often  easy  to  very  strong- 
willed  people. 

They  worked  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  then  Beechy  was 
sent  to  cut  some  roses  for  the  house-chapel.  Somehow  the 
singing  alone  had  reminded  her  of  the  theatre.  She  won- 
dered how  they  all  were,  and  the  artists.  If  Giacomini 
was  still  there,  and  good  old  Piombini,  the  basso.  The  little 
hunchbacked  doorkeeper,  was  he  still  there,  and  who  gave 
him  Greek  olives  nowadays? 

In  the  desolate  autumnal  garden  the  girl  stood  thought- 
fully, her  rusty  scissors  in  her  hand.  She  thought  of  the 
footlights'  cheerful  blaze,  the  good-natured,  sweating  scene- 
shifters,  the  delicious,  thrilling  tuning-up  of  the  orchestra — 
it  all  seemed  very  far  away  and  very  wonderful.  As  she 
stood  there  the  very  feel  of  it  seemed  to  come  back  to  her; 
the  very  smell;  the  magic  of  it  rushed  over  her  like  a  warm 
tide,  till  her  blood  tingled  in  her  veins  and  her  head  swam. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said  aloud. 

With  a  little  start  she  set  to  work  cutting  the  roses,  poor 
sad  things  on  their  leaf-bare  bushes,  and  laid  them  in  her 
old  basket. 

Her  hands  shook  with  impatience.  How  could  she  have 
borne  it  for  so  long?  Looking  back  on  the  year  and  a  half 
that  she  had  been  there  she  could  not  understand  herself. 
"  I  have  been  asleep,"  she  said,  as  she  snipped  at  the 


ioo  BEECHY 

bushes.  She  went  into  the  refectory,  arranged  her  flowers, 
and  went  up  to  the  chapel. 

The  place  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  red  light  over  the 
altar  glowed  like  a  ruby  in  the  dusk. 

Against  the  pale  evening  sky  the  angular  figures  of  the 
saints  in  the  windows  looked  like  ghosts,  and  a  marble 
statue  of  Christ  being  taken  from  the  cross  made  her  start 
and  shudder.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  living  in  a  tomb. 
With  a  perfunctory  reverence  to  the  altar  she  set  the  big 
vases  in  their  place  and  left  the  chapel. 

"  I  will  go  after  supper,"  she  said,  "  only  two  hours,  and 
then " 


CHAPTER  XIV 
BACK  TO  THE  THEATRE 

OH,  the  marvel  of  the  streets  at  night  after  eighteen 
months  of  going  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock.  Oh,  the 
excitement  of  the  sauntering  pleasure-bent  crowd, 
with,  each  member  of  it,  his  or  her  individual  interests  and 
secrets  and  ambitions.  Oh,  the  beauty  of  the  women,  the 
strangeness  of  their  clothes  (fashions  change  a  great  deal  in 
a  year  and  a  half),  the  gaiety  of  the  lighted  shops,  the 
cosiness  of  the  little  fleeting  scenes  within  them  as  one  hur- 
ried by. 

In  a  word,  Beechy  was  full  of  the  glory  and  majesty  of 
life  in  a  great  city  as  she  hastened  down  one  of  the  seven 
hills,  up  and  down  another  to  the  Corso  and  by  the  narrow 
streets  to  the  theatre.  She  did  not  realise  it,  but  her  habit- 
like  gown  and  ugly  felt  hat  stood  her  in  good  stead. 

Almost  as  unobserved  as  if  she  had  been  a  nun  she  sped 
along,  gazing  intently  at  everything  she  passed,  smiling, 
almost  laughing,  to  herself.  People  who  love  the  country 
are  almost  invariably  proud  of  their  preference,  and  the 
urban-souled  usually  feel  that  they  ought  to  explain  why 
they  prefer  the  ways  of  man  to  the  haunts  of  trees  and 
cattle. 

Beechy  was  a  town-lover  and  as  such  adored  the  feel 
of  the  stones  under  her  feet,  the  light-garlanded  darkness, 
the  people  she  passed,  and  I  for  one,  see  no  reason  why  she 
should  have  been  ashamed  of  her  love. 

101 


102  BEECHY 

With  all  his  faults  surely  the  city-bred  man  (I  speak  of 
the  poorer  classes)  is  a  more  living  creature  than  his  country 
cousin. 

Give  me  the  gamin  any  'day  rather  than  the  lout. 

The  night  had  come  down  chilly  and  a  little  windy. 
Men  wrapped  their  long  cloaks  round  them,  hurrying  women 
pulled  closer  their  knitted  scarves,  children  blew  on  their 
little  fingers  and  trotted  hard  to  keep  up  with  their  elders. 
And  the  sound  of  Rome  was  like  the  beat  of  its  great 
southern  heart. 

"  Ah  Dio,  Ah  Dio,"  the  girl  repeated  under  her  breath, 
"  Ah  Dio,  Dio,  Dio,"  and  in  its  inarticulate  way  it  was  a 
prayer. 

A  horse  went  down  and  a  crowd  collected.  Beechy  was 
one  of  the  crowd.  The  poor  beast,  an  underfed  cab  horse, 
struggled  and  scrambled  while  its  driver  beat  it  over  the 
head  with  the  butt  end  of  his  whip.  (This  treatment  of 
animals  is  not  a  phase  of  their  character  on  which  the  lover 
of  Italians  cares  to  dwell.)  The  horse  at  last  got  up  and 
galloped  away,  and  the  crowd  dispersed.  A  man  and  a 
woman  emerged  from  the  blackness  of  a  side  street.  His 
arm  was  about  her  waist,  her  head  leaning  to  the  detriment 
of  her  hat,  against  his  arm. 

"  Amor  mio ! "  he  said,  and  she  murmured  in  return, 
"  Amore." 

Beechy  heard  them  and  her  smile  was  tender.  Lovers. 
Alas,  poor  Landucci!  Love,  what  was  it?  The  dear 
good  Sisters  they  would  have  none  of  it.  They  loved  Christ 
bleeding  on  His  Cross,  but  of  earthly  love  they  would  not 
hear. 

Yet  Padre  Antonio  continually  married  people.  Beechy 
had  seen  several  weddings,  so  she  knew.  The  nuns  are 


BACK    TO    THE   THEATRE  103 

rather — well,  not  silly  of  course,  but — illogical,  the  girl  re- 
flected, as  she  loitered  behind  the  lovers,  because  if  there 
were  no  lovers  there  would  be  no  fathers  and  mothers  to  die 
and  leave  dear  little  orphans  to  be  cared  forl 

Ah,  the  world!     The  lights  1     The  people! 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  in  front  of  the  theatre. 
Large  posters  adorned  the  walls,  and  cabs  stood  in  front  of 
it,  while  the  swing-doors  seemed  the  converging  point  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Carmen!  " 

It  was  only  of  a  piece  with  all  the  other  marvels  of  the 
world  that  they  should  be  giving  "  Carmen "  to-night. 
Hurrying  round  to  the  stage-door  she  addressed  the  little 
hunchback,  still  in  his  accustomed  place,  and  unchanged, 
apparently. 

"  Buona  sera,  Ercole !  " 

He  looked  up  at  her,  wondering. 

"  Don't  you  know  me?  " 

"  Signorina, — excuse  me, — no." 

She  laughed.     "  Don't  you  remember  il  piccolo  Bici  ?  " 

The  little  man  rubbed  the  back  of  his  head.  "  Yes, — 
but " 

«  Well— I  am  the  little  Bici- 

Again  she  laughed  and  he  stared  at  her,  puzzled,  vaguely 
remembering  her. 

"  But — Bici  was  a  boy " 

"  Yes, — and  now  he  is  a  girl.  Signor  Ercole, — let  me  in, 
there's  a  dear." 

A  moment  later  and  she  was  in  the  wings.  The  curtain 
had  just  gone  up  and  the  men  were  still  singing  the  open- 
ing chorus.  Ah  the  smell  of  it! 

She  stood  sniffing,  peering  round  her  on  all  sides.     She 


104  BEECHY 

could  not  see  the  director  of  the  orchestra  from  her  place, 
but  it  seemed  as  though  poor  Landucci  must  be  there,  his 
wild  black  hair  flying. 

"  Hi, — what  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  turned,  annoyed  by  the  tone  of  the  voice  that  ad- 
dressed her.  She  had  learned  to  be  annoyed  by  minor  things 
like  vocal  shades  in  speech. 

"I — I  am  sorry.     Am  I  in  the  way?" 

The  man  stared  at  her  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Signorina,  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  see  one  of 
the  artists — Signora  Caccia?" 

"  Yes,  please,  I  wish  to  see  Signora  Caccia." 

The  man,  who  was  a  stage  carpenter,  withdrew  politely, 
and  she  stood  for  a  long  time  watching. 

As  she  listened  the  music  came  back  to  her,  she  remem- 
bered it  all  and  sang  softly  under  her  breath. 

When  the  curtain  went  down  she  awoke  with  a  little 
start  and  drew  back  to  let  the  singers  troop  past  her. 

One  of  the  first  was  old  Narolo,  one  of  the  soldiers. 

"  Signer  Narolo!" 

He  stopped,  wiping  his  face  on  his  handkerchief. 

"  Signor  Narolo,  don't  you  know  me?     Bici?" 

He  stared.     "  Holy  Madonna,  yes,  it  is  you,  but " 

She  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  in  both  hers.  "  I  know 
I  used  to  be  a  boy,  but  never  mind  that.  I — I  am  so  glad 
to  be  back ! " 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  little  hysterically.  "  In  a  convent.  Tell 
me,  are  all  the  artists  changed  ?  " 

"  Yes, — all  except  Celli  and  me.  The  baritone  Ven- 
dramini  is  singing  in  Petersburg.  Fa  carriera,  lui.  Ah 
yes,  he  makes  a  career,  while  we  others " 


BACK   TO    THE   THEATRE  105 

"  May  I  see  la  Celli  ?  "  asked  Beechy  eagerly. 

The  man  spread  his  hands.  "  I  don't  know.  Shall  I 
go  and  see?  By  the  way  have  you  heard  that  Vendramini 
married  poor  Maestro  Landucci's  widow?" 

Beechy  gasped.  She  had  not  yet  learned  the  fact  that 
some  women,  irrespective  of  looks,  character,  or  fortune, 
possess  what  may  be  called  the  marrying  faculty,  and  are 
never  at  a  loss  for  a  husband. 

"The  baritone!     But  why?" 

Narolo  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Who  knows?"  he  re- 
turned philosophically. 

A  moment  later  he  returned,  and  led  Beechy  into 
Micaela's  presence. 

La  Celli  was  a  good  soul  and  apparently  packed  full  of 
short  screeches,  which  she  let  forth  from  her  stiff  painted 
mouth  in  lieu  of  words.  "  Aie,"  she  said  when  she  saw 
Beechy.  "Oh!" 

To  her  the  appearance  in  her  dressing-room  of  a  young 
girl  in  semi-monastical  garb  was  too  astounding  a  thing  to 
be  met  with  articulate  language. 

Beechy  held  out  her  hand.  "  How  do  you  do,  Signora," 
she  said  rapidly.  "  I  am  Beatrice  Cavaleone,  who  used  to 
sing  in  the  boys'  chorus  in  '  Carmen,'  and  then  as  supple- 
mentary Mercedes.  Little  Bici.  Yes,  I  know  you  thought 
I  was  a  boy.  Well — I  wasn't.  How  are  you?  You  are 
in  excellent  voice." 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  a  very  bad  throat,  very.  But  I  have  an 
inhaling  machine  that  is  doing  marvels  for  me,  marvels. 
How  do  you  like  my  dress?  Yes,  of  course,  I  thought  you 
were  a  boy.  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?  " 

Beechy  told  her  as  much  as  she  wished  to  have  known, 
which  was  not  much,  and  then  in  her  turn  asked  some  ques- 


io6  BEECHY 

tions.  She  learned  all  the  news  of  the  little  theatre;  that 
the  new  director  of  the  orchestra  was  charming,  so  good- 
tempered;  that  the  tenor  was  not  bad,  but  wanted  all  the 
applause ;  and  was  very  jealous  of  her,  the  Celli's,  popularity ; 
that  the  woman  singing  Carmen  was  a  stick  with  no  voice 
at  all,  but  who  had  a  friend  who  paid  a  very  big  "  claque  " 
for  her  so  that  she  was  encored  every  evening. 

"  Una  vergogna, — a  shame,  caro — I  should  say  cara,  but 
I  can't  get  over  the  feeling  that  you  are  a  boy." 

The  stage  manager  was  the  same.  "  He  is  married  and 
his  wife  is  very  rich." 

"  Where  are  the  Giacomini  ?  "  asked  Beechy,  keenly  in- 
terested in  it  all. 

"  She  is  singing  in  Messina  this  winter.  Her  little  girl 
died,  poor  soul.  He  is  worse  than  ever,  lives  like  a  prince, 
on  her  shoulders.  Husbands  are  horrible,"  added  Micaela 
giving  a  dash  of  black  to  her  right  eyebrow. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Beechy.  "  Signorina — I  want  to  learn  to 
sing." 

But  Celli,  like  most  artists,  was  grave  over  the  possibility 
of  another's  learning  what  she  had  learned. 

"  To  sing,  my  child  ?    Ah,  it  is  a  difficult  art." 

"  I  know.  But  I — I  must  learn.  And  you,  who  sing 
so  well — you  will  advise  me." 

This  was  not  conscious  artfulness  on  the  young  girl's 
part;  it  was  part  of  her  artistic  nature,  the  unerring  instinct 
for  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place.  Later  she  had  days 
of  the  clumsiest  blundering,  when  she  said  and  did  the  most 
uncomfortable  things,  but  these  were  days  when  her  artistic 
nature  was  troubled  by  the  conventional  one  that  grew  up 
with  her  experience  of  the  world.  For  the  present  she  was 
that  happiest  of  human  things,  an  uncomplicated  artistic 


BACK   TO    THE   THEATRE  107 

nature  growing  towards  expression.  Celli  smiled  with  the 
simple  vanity  of  her  kind. 

"  Well — they  do  say  I  sing  well — open  that  drawer  there, 
dear,  and  you'll  find  last  night's  paper.  It's  marked  in 
blue  pencil " 

Obediently,  Beechy  read  the  conventional  words  of  ap- 
proval. An  odd  wave  of  pity  swept  over  her  as  she  read. 
This  would  not  have  satisfied  her.  No.  For  her  things 
would  have  to  be  big. 

At  length,  after  ten  minutes  skilful  conversational  lead- 
ing, she  drew  from  Celli  that  her  teacher  was  one  Signora 
Scarpia,  who  lived  up  four  flights  of  stairs  at  the  back  of 
an  old  palace  near  the  Palace  of  the  Csesars. 

"  I  will  write  to  her  and  tell  her  about  you,"  concluded 
the  little  woman  rather  grandly. 

"  Ah  yes,  a  word  from  you " 

Beechy  left  her  and  went  back  to  the  wings.  Some  of 
the  chorus-people  on  hearing  who  she  was,  came  and  talked 
to  her.  They  had  all  liked  her,  for  when  she  had  been  at 
the  theatre  she  was  too  young  to  have  used  the  strong  will 
that  later  made  many  enemies  for  her. 

Her  eyes  glowing,  she  told  her  simple  story,  without, 
however,  naming  the  convent,  for  she  knew  that  the  gentle 
nuns  would  not  welcome  their  theatrical  brethren  and  sis- 
ters. The  stage  manager  (beautifully  dressed  now,  and 
with  a  very  wealthy  manner)  paid  her  courteous  compli- 
ments on  her  appearance. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  very  beautiful,"  he  said.  "  Even 
now,  with  good  clothes " 

Perhaps  he  was  right,  for  while  clothes  do  not  make  the 
man,  they  certainly  very  nearly  make  the  woman.  Beechy 
showed  her  teeth  in  a  pleased  grin. 


io8  BEECHY 

"You  think  so?  So  much  the  better."  (What  she 
really  said  was  meno  male,  which  means,  literally,  "  so 
much  less  bad.") 

Everyone  was  greatly  amused  at  seeing  her,  for  the 
Singer-eater  had  told  one  or  two  of  his  discovery  that  she 
was  a  girl,  and  some  of  the  new  artists  had  laughed  at  the 
story,  and  now  here  was  the  heroine.  Until  the  lights  were 
out  and  even  the  grandest  of  the  artists  leaving  ( for  it  takes 
the  creator  of  a  name-role  much  longer  to  get  the  grease 
paint  off  his  or  her  face  than  it  does  a  humble  lady  or  gen- 
tleman of  the  chorus)  Beechy  stayed  on.  She  knew  that 
there  would  be  a  row  at  the  convent  on  her  return,  but  the 
joy  of  being  once  more  on  a  stage  was  irresistible. 

Her  thin  nostrils  inflated  nervously  like  those  of  a  horse 
as  she  talked  and  listened,  her  cheeks  burned  crimson. 

Then  at  last  she,  too,  left  the  theatre,  and  hurried  home- 
wards. 

It  was  very  cold  now,  and  scudding  clouds  made  the 
moonlight  fitful  and  fantastic. 

At  the  gate  of  the  convent,  before  she  pulled  the  bell,  the 
girl  stood  and  looked  out  at  the  Piazza. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  nuns,"  she  said,  under  her  breath,  "  never 
to  be  able  to  go  about  at  night." 


CHAPTER   XV 
OLD  FRIENDS 

IT  is  an  unpardonable  thing  to  have  done,"   declared 
Father  Antonio,  severely. 
"Nothing   is   unpardonable,   Padre   caro,"   returned 
Beechy,  with  a  more  saintly  expression  than  usual. 

The  old  man's  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  When  there  is  repentance  comes  pardon ;  not  when 
there  is  stiff-necked  pride  in  evil-doing." 

The  morning  sun  lay  in  pleasant  patches  on  the  brick 
floor,  the  cat  purred  loudly,  and  from  the  kitchen  came  a 
delightful  sound  of  frying. 

"  Do  I  smell  it  with  my  ears,"  Beechy  wondered,  "  or 
hear  it  with  my  nose?" 

Good  Mother  Maria  Maddalena  had,  after  a  long  talk 
with  the  girl,  sent  her  over  to  be  scolded  by  Father  Antonio. 
And  Father  Antonio  had  scolded  for  about  ten  minutes,  with 
no  effect  whatsoever.  Beechy  stood  before  him  in  a  respect- 
ful attitude,  her  hands  clasped  against  her  scant  grey  skirt, 
her  clumsily  booted  feet  quite  quiet. 

Only — her  face  wore  a  most  inappropriate  expression  of 
triumph. 

"You  are  not  showing  the  gratitude  I  had  hoped  for," 
sighed  the  old  man  at  length. 

"  But  I  am  grateful,  Padre!  Grateful  I  am,"  she  went 
on,  changing  the  wording  of  her  phrase  in  the  pretty  Italian 
way.  "  You  have  all  been  so  good  to  me,  so  good !  I  shall 

109 


no  BEECHY 

never  forget  it.  And  I  love  you  all — even  Sister  Veronica 
with  the  beard.  But  now  I  must  go.  I  must  go  and  learn 
to  sing." 

"  But  I  cannot  let  you  go,  my  dear.  You  are  a  child, 
you  do  not  know  the  world,  you  have  no  parents,  you  are 
alone " 

It  was  the  old,  old  story,  and  of  course  youth  won. 

Beechy  sweetly  smiled  at  him,  but  her  smile  was  in- 
exorable. "  I  will  go  and  live  with  Signora  Campi  at  the 
Two  Queens.  She  is  very  fond  of  me  and  will  be  glad 
to  have  me." 

Her  confidence  was  rather  beautiful  and  the  old  man 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  disturb  it.  If  he  had 
tried,  however,  he  would  have  failed,  for  the  sense  of 
security  in  the  affection  of  her  kind  was  a  very  strong  one 
in  the  child  and  lasted  more  or  less  all  her  life. 

"  But — who  will  pay  for  your  singing  lessons  ?  " 

This  he  expected  to  be  a  facer,  but  it  failed. 

"  I  shall  work,"  she  returned. 

"  In  what  way  ?    What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  can  cook,  I  can  sweep,  I  can  clean  lamps,  I  can  sell 
newspapers,  I  can  make  beds,  I  can  blow  an  organ,  I 
can  dig " 

She  was,  in  thus  naming  her  accomplishments,  perfectly 
serious.  It  was  ridiculous,  but  not  to  her.  She  had  a  keen 
sense  of  humour,  but  it  did  not  apply  to  herself  at  this  early 
period  of  her  life. 

Father  Antonio  shook  his  head  gently. 

"  You  cannot  sell  papers  nor  dig  now,  you  are  too  old, 
and  for  the  other  things, — surely  you  don't  wish  to  be  a 
housemaid  ?  " 

Beechy  stood,  looking  what  the  French  very  expressively 


OLD   FRIENDS  in 

call  interdicted.  This  aspect  of  the  case  appeared  to  her 
for  the  first  time.  She  had  been  living  on  charity — on 
generous,  loving  charity,  and  as  she  had  worked  in  the  same 
spirit  from  morning  to  night  no  feeling  of  humiliation  had 
ever  come  to  her.  Nor  did  it  come,  retrospectively,  now. 

It  is  a  gracious  quality,  that  of  giving  well,  but  there 
are  not  many  people  who  receive  well,  and  of  these  few 
Beechy  was  one.  Quite  simply  she  took,  all  her  life,  what 
was  given  to  her.  If  Father  Antonio  had  said  to  her,  "  Here 
is  money,  go  and  live  as  you  like,"  she  would  have  been 
profoundly  grateful  in  the  sense  that  warm  love  for  him 
would  have  surged  up  in  her  heart,  but  she  would  have  felt 
no  immediate  impulse  of  return  in  kind. 

It  is  hard  to  explain  this,  but  it  exists  in  some  artist 
souls,  and  when  it  has  existed  and  been  educated  away,  a 
great  charm  of  childlikeness  has  gone  with  it. 

But  the  old  priest's  words  now  taught  the  girl  that  she 
had  no  means  of  living  unless,  as  he  said,  she  became  a 
servant. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  be  a  housemaid,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. 

Father  Antonio  took  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

"  While  your  father  lived,"  he  said,  "  there  was  money?  " 

"  Yes.     Very  little,  but — I  didn't  have  to  work." 

"Well — how  did  it  come?  Did  you  go  to  a  bank  for 
it?" 

"  No,  the  postman  used  to  bring  it,  every  quarter.  I 
wonder " 

"And  so  do  I  wonder!  Why  did  you  never  inquire? 
Someone  must  have  sent  it  to  him, — you  never  asked  ?  " 

Beechy  spread  out  her  hands.  "  Che !  No,  there  was  no 
one  to  ask.  The  Commendatore  might  have  known,  but 


ii2  'BEECHY 

he  never  came  again,  and  then  I  went  to  the  Two 
Queens " 

Father  Antonio  put  his  old  snuff-box  into  his  pocket  and 
waited  for  his  sneeze.  It  came  at  length,  shaking  him  de- 
lightfully, and  then  he  spoke. 

"  I  will  find  out  for  you — through  the  post-office  people. 
Strange  that  it  never  occurred  to  us  before — And  then  if  you 
insist  on  leaving  us — I  shall  miss  you,  Bici, — I  will  find 
some  good  woman  who  will  take  you  into  her  home " 

Beechy  thanked  him  and  went  slowly  into  the  garden. 
The  sun  had  come  out  warm  and  yellow  as  if  winter  were 
over  and  spring  knocking  at  the  gates.  The  roses  that 
had  looked  lonely  and  chilly  the  evening  before  glowed 
proudly,  boasting  of  the  way  that  they  were  keeping  their 
youth. 

But  to  Beechy  the  charm  had  gone.  She  had  loved  the 
convent,  but  now  its  time  had  passed,  and  the  world  was 
calling  her. 

She  moved  restlessly  about,  forgetting  her  work,  regard- 
less of  the  gentle  troubled  faces  that  now  and  then  looked 
out  at  her  from  the  windows.  She  wished  to  go  to  the 
Two  Queens,  back  to  her  little  room  under  the  roof,  back 
to  the  old  cradle  that  she  had  rocked  every  night  in  fantastic 
pity  for  some  little  wakeful  ghost  baby  in  it. 

She  wanted  people. 

Up  and  down  the  garden  she  paced,  her  arms  crossed  in 
her  Napoleonic  way,  her  little  round  chin  almost  touching 
the  bib  of  her  blue  holland  apron.  People,  noisy,  clamour- 
ous, eager,  selfish,  living  people.  Even  the  hurrying,  fussy 
waiters  in  the  Two  Queens  restaurant  interested  her.  They 
were  alive. 

And  the  dear  good  nuns  were  half  alive,  to  be  sure,  but 


OLD  FRIENDS  113 

also  half  dead.  What  did  they  know  of  the  magic  of  the 
city?  What  would  a  great  crowd  be  to  them  but  a  terror? 
What  would  be  to  them  the  bursting  into  bloom  of  these 
night  flowers,  the  street  lamps? 

No,  poor  things,  when  they  took  their  vows  and  lay  be- 
fore the  altar  like  the  dead,  it  was  true  that  something  of 
them  died, — the  best  part,  it  seemed  to  Beechy,  their  imag- 
inations. 

"  Bici, — we  are  going  for  our  walk,  will  you  come?" 

Sister  Monica,  youngest  and  prettiest  of  the  nuns,  stood 
there  in  the  sun,  her  sweet  brown  eyes  troubled,  her  brown 
hands  clasped.  Beechy  nodded.  "  Yes,  my  Sister." 

Together  they  went  to  the  house  and  found  the  orphans 
lined  up  ready  to  start.  Forty-five  little  creatures  in  grey 
cloaks  and  ugly  black  hats,  and  they  all  smiled  and  chat- 
tered as  Beechy  came  in. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  They  were  small,  the  orphans, 
but  they  were  alive,  and  they  loved  her  and  she  loved  them. 
She  would  miss  them,  and  they  would  miss  her. 

"  Oh,  you  dears,"  she  cried  suddenly,  kneeling  down  and 
gathering  the  two  nearest  to  her  breast. 

All  the  tiny  creatures  rushed  at  her,  shoving  and  scolding 
each  other,  trying  to  reach  her  warm  arms. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  and  Sister  Monica's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  as  she  watched.  She  was  less  dead  than  Beechy 
thought,  Sister  Monica. 

The  children  gathered  round  Beechy,  like  bees  round  a 
flower,  and  she  kissed  all  she  could  reach,  her  eyes  wet. 

Then  order  was  restored  and  the  little  procession  filed 
out  of  the  big  door  into  the  street,  a  nun  at  the  head  and  a 
nun  at  the  tail,  and  Beechy  in  the  middle  leading  a  very 
small  orphan  by  the  hand.  They  did  not  go  into  the  city. 


ii4  BEECHY 

Instead  they  turned  sharp  off  up  the  hill  and  then  going 
down  a  flight  of  steep  steps  came  out  near  one  of  the  city 
gates  and  under  its  old  arch  they  marched,  and  then  out 
along  desolate,  muddy  streets,  past  humble  shops  and  ugly 
houses  of  workpeople. 

It  was  a  horrible  walk  and  Beechy  loathed  it.  "  Beauti- 
ful Rome,"  she  thought,  "  of  all  your  streets  why  must  we 
come  here  ?  " 

High  carts  piled  with  stones  creaked  by,  splashing  the 
orphans  with  mud,  filling  the  air  with  their  rumbling  and 
rattle.  The  orphans  prattled,  enjoying  the  sunlight  and 
the  movement.  The  nuns  and  Beechy  were  silent. 

At  length  the  end  of  the  street  was  reached.  It  ended 
like  a  street  in  a  dream,  abruptly.  The  last  house  in  it  was 
a  tall  tenement  built  as  a  speculation,  a  failure.  Beyond  it 
stretched  a  brick  and  paper-scattered  wilderness,  and  be- 
yond that  the  Campagna.  The  mountains  were  veiled  in 
purple  haze,  the  sky  above  them  blue.  The  distance  seemed 
infinite. 

For  a  moment  the  little  group  of  feminine  creatures  stood 
and  watched  the  scene.  They  all  loved  its  beauty,  even  the 
little  ones,  all  but  Beechy. 

The  country  saddened  her;  wide  spaces  filled  her  with  a 
kind  of  uneasiness;  the  romance  of  the  mountains  gave  her 
a  sensation  only  to  be  explained  very  badly  by  the  word 
embarrassment. 

And  she  felt  an  intruder,  and  as  such,  shy.  She  sighed 
with  relief  when  they  turned  and  started  back  towards  the 
city. 

As  they  reached  the  convent  door  Father  Antonio  passed 
them,  his  old  umbrella  under  his  arm,  his  shoe  buckles 


OLD  FRIENDS  115 

twinkling  in  the  sun.  He  smiled  as  he  went  by,  and  Beechy, 
when  the  last  orphan  had  filed  past  her  into  the  dark  hall- 
way, turned  without  a  word  and  rushed  after  him. 

"  Padre — you  are  going  to  the  via  del  Violino,"  she 
panted  at  the  top  of  the  east  end  of  the  Piazza.  "  I  must 
go  with  you " 

He  did  not  protest,  perhaps  because  he  was  wise  enough 
in  his  gentle  old  age  to  feel  that  already  she  was  lost  to 
them,  that  the  world's  claims  on  her  could  not  be  denied. 

"  Ebbene,  child,"  he  said,  "  you  may  come." 

Several  people  turned  in  the  friendly  Italian  way  to  look 
after  them  as  they  crossed  the  city.  The  little  old  priest 
with  the  long  white  locks  hanging  from  under  his  shabby, 
clean  hat,  and  the  springing,  vigorous,  handsome  child. 
Grey  sackcloth  did  not  seem  appropriate  wear  for  Beechy. 
She  walked  as  though  she  wore  velvet,  and  her  hideous  hat 
with  its  black  ribbons  looked  like  a  Carnival  freak  of  dis- 
guise. 

"  It  seems  that  I  should  have  gone  long  ago  to  see  them 
all  in  the  Street  of  the  Violin,"  she  said,  as  the  old  man 
gently  refused  alms  to  a  beggar.  "  They  will  think  I  have 
forgotten  them,  but  I  have  not, — I  love  them  all.  Dear 
Signora  Marianna  and  dear  old  Agnese.  She's  the  one  who 
gave  me  the  boy's  clothes,  you  know!  She  has  a  bird- 
shop.  Such  beautiful  birds!  Do  you  like  birds,  Father 
Antonio?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  Lamberti,  too,"  she  went  on,  "  while 
you  are  at  the  post-office.  Old  Lamberti  will  be  surprised 
to  find  me  so  tall;  he  use'd  to  say  I  should  be  a  dwarf — to 
tease  me,  you  know.  And  I'll  go  and  see  Simeone, 


u6  BEECHY 

Father  Antonio  smiled.  "  You  are  very  anxious  to  see 
them  all,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  have  you  not  thought  of  them 
all  this  time?" 

Beechy  paused  for  a  second.  "  No,"  she  answered  with 
unabashed  frankness,  "  I  haven't  thought  of  them,  but  I 
didn't  forget  them." 

"  That  seems  strange." 

"  Strange?  No,  Padre,  mio  buono.  It  is  like — say  one's 
summer  hat.  It  is  put  away  in  the  autumn,  and  one  doesn't 
think  about  it  during  the  winter  because  it  is  winter  and 
one  wears  one's  winter  hat.  But  when  the  summer 
comes  " — she  made  a  fluttering,  expressive  movement  with 
her  hand — "  one  gets  out  one's  hat  and  is  delighted  to  wear 
it  again." 

The  joyous  egotism  of  this  parabolic  explanation  did  not 
escape  the  priest,  but  he  did  not  protest,  he  merely  said, 
"  Some  people  would  not  care  to  be  regarded  as  your  sum- 
mer hat,  my  child." 

But  Beechy  laughed. 

"But  why?  I  do  not  mind  being  theirs"  she  returned. 
And  she  meant  it. 

Father  Antonio,  who  was  full  of  the  instinctive  wisdom 
that  intelligent  priests,  be  they  never  so  shut  in,  almost  in- 
variably become  possessed  of,  watched  her  closely  during 
the  time  they  passed  in  the  Street  of  the  Violin.  For  she 
insisted  on  his  going  with  her  to  see  all  her  friends,  and 
he  went.  To  the  restaurant,  where  the  children  all  seemed 
to  Beechy  to  be  grown  almost  beyond  belief ;  to  the  bird-shop, 
where  old  Agnese  hardly  recognised  Beechy  in  her  turn  and 
where  a  fine  new  grey  parrot  had  come  to  live. 

To  the  chair-seat  maker's  dark  box  of  a  shop,  where  a 
packet  of  chocolate  was  at  once  found  for  the  girl,  but 


OLD   FRIENDS  117 

where  reproaches  about  the  long  desertion  of  the  old  street 
were  loud  and  eloquent. 

"  You  forgot  us,"  the  old  man  repeated,  rubbing  his  red 
nose  indignantly,  "  forgot  all  your  old  friends." 

"  But  I  didn't"  Beechy  protested,  munching  the  choc- 
olate with  great  relish,  "  I  didn't  forget  you  a  bit,  did  I 
Father  Antonio?" 

The  old  man  smiled  from  the  big  chair  that  had  been 
dragged  into  the  shop  from  the  back  room  in  his  honour. 
"  Children  are  different  from  grown  people,  Signore,"  he 
said  with  innocent  diplomacy  to  Lamberti. 

"  And  how  is  Giovacchino  ?  "  inquired  Beechy,  "  and  little 
Filippina  in  Napoli  ?  " 

"  They  are  quite  well,"  Lamberti  admitted,  grudgingly. 

"  And,"  went  on  Beechy,  "  did  Luigi  marry  the  vineyard- 
keeper's  daughter?" 

Her  face  was  aglow  with  real  interest  and  Lamberti 
melted  suddenly. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  rumpling  his  hair  with  a  violent  motion 
and  turning  to  the  priest.  "  It  is  not  heart  that  she  lacks, 
the  little  one " 

"  No,"  agreed  Father  Antonio,  well  pleased. 

"  What  is  it  then?  " 

Beechy's  voice  almost  throbbed  with  the  excitement  of 
the  question.  "  What  is  it  I  lack  ?  " 

"  Not  vanity,  anyway,"  chuckled  Lamberti,  "  that  is 
certain." 

But  calling  her  vain  never  hurt  her  in  the  least.  She 
was  vain  as  naturally  as  a  peacock  is,  and  when  her  self- 
interest  was  touched  deeply  as  it  was  on  this  occasion,  her 
insistence  was  unending.  Alexis  Wauchope,  the  critic,  once 
said  of  her  that  her  vanity  was  so  great  that  he  always  saw 


ii8  BEECHY 

her  in  an  iridescent  light,  as  though  she  was  surrounded  by 
spiritual  peacocks'  feathers. 

"  You  do  not  yet  realise,"  answered  the  priest,  rising, 
and  speaking  with  conscientious  seriousness,  "  the  importance 
of  other  people." 

Beechy  said  good-bye  to  Lambert!  and  then,  after  walk- 
ing in  silence  for  several  minutes,  answered  the  criticism. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  decisively,  "  if  /  don't,  they  do,  and 
that  evens  things  up." 


CHAPTER   XVI 
BEECHY  MEETS  A  PRINCE  AND  A  TENOR 

THE  most  romantic  things  have  a  way  of  happening 
to  certain  people  from  the  day  they  are  old  enough 
to  toddle  across  the  room.     Other  people  may  travel, 
tempt  Fortune  in  a  variety  of  ways,   lose  and  make  for- 
tunes, love,  marry,  and  be  buried  without  the  smallest  unex- 
pected event  breaking  the  hideous  monotony  of  their  days. 
One  blames  dull  people  for  their  dulness,  than  which  exists 
no  greater  injustice.     Who  wishes  to  be   dull?     No  one. 
And  those  poor  creatures  who  are  dull  ought  to  receive  from 
the  lucky  others  at  least  the  tribute  of  pity. 

Beechy  was  of  the  adventurous  type,  but  that  in  itself 
meant  nothing.  Many  adventurous-minded  people  are 
dodged  all  their  days  by  romantic  happenings.  I  know  a 
woman  who  went  through  Persia  on  horseback  and  all  that 
happened  to  her  worth  remembering  was  that  she  broke  the 
busk  of  her  stays  and  was  made  miserable  thereby  for  days. 

Now  Beechy  was  of  the  sort  to  whom  if  shut  up  in  one 
room  in  an  hotel  in  Manchester,  something  diverting  would 
happen,  even  if  the  hotel  had  to  be  burnt  to  the  ground  to 
bring  it  about. 

And  it  was  certainly  romantic  to  find  through  the  post- 
office  people  that  the  small  sum  of  two  thousand  lire  had 
been  sent  through  the  post  in  quarterly  payments  to  the 
late  Giulio  Cavaleone  from  old  Prince  Cavaleone  who  lived 
in  the  palace  in  the  Corso. 

119 


120  BEECHY 

The  old  postman  whom  Beechy  had  known  all  her  life 
had  known  all  about  it,  and  he  was  easy  enough  to  find. 

Father  Antonio  drew  a  deep  breath.  If  Beechy  was  one 
of  the  Cavaleones,  she  was  to  his  simple  mind  provided  for, 
and  there  seemed  no  doubt  about  it  at  all. 

"  Did  your  father  ever  talk  about  his  people?  "  he  asked 
the  child  as  they  made  their  way  homewards. 

"  No." 

"Never?" 

"  Never,  Padre  mio." 

"And  after  his  death  the  money  ceased  to  be  sent," 
mused  the  priest,  who  was  tired,  and  had  a  stone  in  his 
shoe.  "  That  looks  as  though  the  Signor  Principe  does  not 
know  of  your  existence.  Did  your  father  ever  write 
any  letters?" 

Beechy  reflected.  "  I  can't  remember — but  I  never 
posted  any  for  him.  Perhaps  the  Commendatore " 

The  afternoon  was  chill  and  gusts  of  rain  flew  into  their 
faces  as  they  hurried  home.  Rome  is  a  city  of  many  colour 
expressions;  sometimes  she  dresses  herself  in  violet;  some- 
times in  ruddy  gold;  sometimes  in  grey.  To-night  she  was 
a  dull  grey  city,  desolate  and  empty  looking  as  the  rain  came 
down  harder. 

"  We  must  let  the  old  Signor  Principe  know  that  you 
are  alive,"  Father  Antonio  said,  turning  up  the  collar  of  his 
old  coat,  "  I  will  write  to  him." 

"  Why  don't  we  go  to  see  him  ? "  suggested  Beechy 
calmly. 

She  was  not  at  all  elated  by  the  discovery  of  her  rela- 
tionship to  a  princely  house,  for  Italians  are  not  snobs  and 
princes  are  many.  But  she  was  keenly  interested  and  fully 
alive  to  the  material  advantages  of  her  new  position. 


MEETS  A  PRINCE  AND  A   TENOR       121 

"  I  should  like  to  live  in  a  palace,"  she  mused,  "  and  I 
will  buy  a  long  string  of  coral  beads  at  once." 

The  old  priest's  little  living  room  looked  very  cosey  after 
the  long  walk  in  the  rain.  Beechy,  whose  black  woollen 
ankles  were  wet,  kicked  off  her  shoes  and  sat  down  by  the 
little  stove. 

"  It's  the  palace  with  the  loggia  under  the  roof,  isn't 
it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes.  And  a  fountain  by  Bernini  in  the  courtyard. 
But  don't  dream  about  living  there,  my  dear.  If  your 
father  had  been  friendly  with  the  family  you  would  not  have 
lived  in  the  via  del  Violino.  Or  he  may  have  been  only  a 
very  distant  cousin  whom  the  Signor  Principe  helped  be- 
cause of  the  name." 

Beechy,  who  was  crouching  over  the  fire,  sat  up  suddenly. 
"  No !  I  know  why  it  was,"  she  exclaimed.  "  It  was  be- 
cause he  married  my  mother.  I  remember  once  he  and  the 
Commendatore  were  talking  about  it  while  I  was  in  bed. 
My  mother  was  a — nursemaid  or  something.  She  was 
English." 

"Ah!" 

The  old  man's  face  fell.  Matters  did  not  look  to  him 
very  promising.  An  English  housemaid  and  an  obstinate 
younger  son.  He  knew  of  the  old  Prince  enough  to  con- 
vince him  that  the  child  of  such  a  marriage  stood  a  very 
small  chance  of  any  kindness  from  him. 

If  Beechy's  father  had  been  a  son  of  the  head  of  the 
house  her  chances  were  very  small  indeed. 

If  on  the  other  hand  he  had  been  merely  one  of  the  dis- 
tant connections  to  whom  great  Romans  are  so  wonderfully 
good,  the  old  man  might  consent  to  provide  for  the  child. 


122  'BEECHY 

At  least,  Father  Antonio  told  himself,  the  effort  must 
be  made,  and  Beechy's  suggestion  that  she  should  go  with 
him  to  see  her  great  relation,  seemed  a  good  one.  Uncon- 
sciously the  old  priest  counted  on  the  child's  quality  of 
charm  as  an  asset  in  the  important  interview. 

He  had  given  up  all  hope  of  persuading  her  to  renounce 
her  ideas  of  studying  singing;  indeed,  such  was  her  inno- 
cent power  of  conviction,  he  even  began  to  see  that,  as  God 
undoubtedly  meant  opera-singers  to  exist,  Beechy  must  be 
one  of  those  predestined  to  that  fate. 

It  saddened  the  good  old  man,  for  the  life  looked  to  him 
a  terrible  one  full  of  temptation,  and  he  loved  Beechy,  but 
sad  things  are  often  the  most  inevitable,  and  Life  had  taught 
him  the  value  of  the  immediate  and  gracious  acceptance  of 
the  unavoidable. 

So  the  two  plotters  laid  their  heads  together  and  planned 
the  storming  of  the  palace  in  the  Corso. 

Three  or  four  days  later  the  very  grand  majordomo 
at  the  door  of  the  palace  was  startled  by  the  appearance  of 
a  shabby  old  priest  and  a  long-legged  little  girl  who  de- 
manded quite  simply  to  see  His  Excellency. 

"  His  Excellency !  Per  Bacco,  and  have  you  an  engage- 
ment with  him?  " 

The  man,  very  gorgeous  in  his  green  and  gold  livery, 
his  tall  gold-knobbed  stick  in  his  hands,  showed  quite 
plainly  that  he  scorned  the  poor. 

His  question  was  one  of  rather  malignant  sarcasm,  but  it 
evoked  an  astonishing  answer. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  priest.  "  He  told  us  to  come  at 
three." 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  allow  these  amazing 
guests  to  pass;  to  hand  them  on  to  another  man  in  livery 


MEETS  A  PRINCE  AND  A   TENOR       123 

who  dwelt  in  a  pen  under  the  great  stone  staircase,  and  who, 
conducting  them  up  to  the  piano  nobile,  presented  them  to 
a  third  and  very  haughty  functionary  in  black,  who  led 
them  down  long  corridors  through  endless  doors,  across  the 
great  ballrooms  whose  shining  floors  were  pathed  with 
narrow  strips  of  red  carpet. 

At  last  the  guide  stopped,  knocked  at  a  door  and,  after 
listening  with  smooth,  bent  head  for  an  answer,  opened  the 
door  and  led  them  into  a  small  room  lined  with  books. 

By  a  generous  open  fire  sat  an  old  man,  a  large  Russian 
boar  hound  at  his  feet. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  bowing  curtly.  "  You  have  come. 
Chairs,  Giovanni." 

Beechy  looked  at  him.  In  his  hands  lay  her  destiny, 
and  never  since  God  had  with  His  hands  created  the  world, 
had  anything  ever  been  so  important  as  her  destiny. 

"You  say  you  are  Giulio  Cavaleone's  daughter?"  asked 
the  old  man. 

"  Si,  Signore." 

"  Have  you  any  proofs?  " 

Beechy,  whose  own  identity  was  to  her  the  most  undeni- 
able thing  in  the  universe,  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"  Proofs?  "  asked  Father  Antonio  gently.  "All  the  peo- 
ple where  she  lived  until — about  three  years  ago — knew 
both  her  father  and  her.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  Signer 
Principe." 

"  There  can  always  be  doubt  about  everything.  Have  you 
her  baptismal  certificate?  The — the  marriage  certificate?" 

"  No,  Signer  Principe." 

"  H'm.  Well,  my  position  is  this.  Giulio  Cavaleone 
was  my  second  cousin.  For  reasons  of  my  own  I  brought 
him  up  under  my  roof.  He  disobeyed  me  in  the  matter 


124  BEECHY 

of  his  marriage  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  When  he  be- 
came an  invalid  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  Commendatore 
Luchini,  came  and  asked  me  to  help  him,  so  I  sent  him 
money.  When  he  died,  the  money  was  returned  to  me,  and 
the  child  having  disappeared,  I  thought  no  more  about  her. 
She  has,  as  you  no  doubt  know,  relations  in  England." 

Father  Antonio  looked  at  Beechy  who  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  my  mother's 
name  was " 

"  Your  mother's  name  was  Smith  and  her  father  had,"  he 
paused,  to  give  full  weight  to  his  information — "  a  shop  in 
Fulham." 

"  Oh,"  said  Beechy.     "  What  fun !  " 

The  two  old  men  looked  at  her.  She  was  obviously  de- 
lighted by  the  tidings.  "  And  where  is  the  Commenda- 
tore? I  will  go  and  see  him.  You  see,  I  had  never 
known  his  name " 

Prince  Cavaleone  was  silent  for  a  moment,  his  mean 
face  quite  expressionless.  Then  he  said  to  Father  Antonio, 
"  She  is,  I  see,  Giulio  Cavaleone's  daughter.  I  will  have 
my  steward  send  her  the  money  I  sent  her  father — with 

the  arrears.  And  now, — I  have  the  honour  to "  He 

rose.  "  I  have  your  address  and  will  have  the  money  sent 
to  your  care.  Good-evening." 

The  priest's  quiet  bow  said  little,  and  Beechy  was  as 
silent. 

When  they  were  again  in  the  street  she  said  thoughtfully, 
"What  a  horrid  old  man.  But  then,  that  doesn't  matter. 
Did  you  see  what  funny  little  eyes  he  had?  And  what  a 
horrid  little  mouth!" 

"  I  had  hoped  he  might  be  kinder, — blood  ought  to  tell," 
sighed  the  priest. 


MEETS  A  PRINCE  AND  A  TENOR       125 

"  Blood !  He  may  keep  his  blood ;  "  Beechy  laughed  as 
she  spoke,  "but  it  is  nice  to  have  some  money."  And  she 
never  referred  to  her  august  distant  cousin  again. 

Father  Antonio  wondered  sometimes  if  it  never  occurred 
to  her  that  a  little  more  humanity  on  Cavaleone's  part  might 
have  meant  for  her  a  share  of  the  good  things  of  the  world, 
but  apparently  the  thought  never  came  to  her. 

Her  ambition  was  to  study  for  the  opera,  and  now  that 
it  was  attained  she  was  perfectly  happy. 

All  her  life  she  was  like  this;  unacquisitive  to  a  very  re- 
markable degree,  unenvious,  demanding  as  a  right  the  things 
her  nature  made  essential  to  her,  but  disregardful  of  the 
merely  luxurious  or  even  the  merely  beautiful. 

The  story  about  the  twenty-six  hats  is  true,  but  that  came 
long  after,  and  was  a  mere  freak  of  her  imagination. 

So  back  she  went  to  the  Two  Queens,  for  no  amount  of 
persuasion  could  induce  her  to  stay  on  at  the  convent  or 
even  with  her  beloved  Padre. 

Back  to  the  Two  Queens,  to  fat  Signora  Campi  with  the 
black  velvet  spots  on  her  smooth  cheeks,  to  the  little  room 
at  the  very  top  of  the  tall  red  house,  to  the  broken  basin  and 
the  empty  cradle. 

Her  days  were  full  and  busy,  for  she  was  incapable  of 
idleness — all  her  life  when  she  got  into  mischief  investiga- 
tion might  have  proved  that  the  mischief  had  been  preceded 
by  a  period  of  enforced  inactivity.  For  her  indeed  did 
Satan  find  trouble  when  her  hands  were  momentarily 
idle. 

But  in  those  early  days  her  mischievous  characteristics 
were  still  dormant  in  her  little  flat  breast,  and  good  Campi, 
true  to  her  former  principle  of  giving  the  girl  the  best  of 
food,  but  of  getting  from  her  in  return  as  much  work  as 


126  BEECHY 

possible,  Beechy  speedily  developed  into  a  very  good  little 
under-housekeeper  indeed. 

She  rose  early,  swept,  brought  the  Signora  her  coffee  on 
a  tray,  looked  after  the  waiters,  made  these  gentry  sweep  (a 
thing  they  all  loathed)  and  struggled  with  some  success 
against  their  deep-laid  habit  of  spitting  on  the  restaurant 
floor. 

The  hotel  part  of  the  Two  Queens  was  a  very  old-estab- 
lished business  and  frequented  by  provincial  tradespeople  of 
the  better  class. 

Those  ladies  who  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  breakfast 
in  bed  were  served  those  three  years  by  a  tall,  rather  un- 
gainly girl  with  red  busy  hands  and  a  remarkably  attractive 
smile;  a  girl  whose  manners  were  a  trifle  queer  but  who, 
when  she  brought  hot  water  brought  it  hot,  and  under 
whose  sway  towels  never  ran  out. 

But  in  the  afternoons  a  very  different  Beechy  was  to  be 
seen  leaving  the  old  house  and  making  her  rapid  way  to  a 
street  near  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars.  A  dark-attired  girl 
with  decent  cotton  gloves  and  a  hat  that  framed  her  face 
and  looked  as  if  it  really  lived  on  her  head.  She  was  gifted 
in  the  putting  on  of  hats. 

She  was,  although  rather  awkward  at  that  time  in  rooms, 
a  very  good  walker.  She  walked  as  though  there  were 
strong  steel  springs  in  her  feet,  and  her  head  was  always 
held  up.  The  woman  who  taught  her  singing  was  a  dark, 
blowsy,  stayless  person  with  a  moustache,  who  lived  year  in 
and  year  out  in  her  little  apartment  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
She  never  came  down  into  the  streets,  and  her  passion  was 
the  breeding  of  canaries.  All  her  life  Beechy  could  close 
her  eyes  and  hear  the  ceaseless  twitter  and  piping  of  the 
myriad  little  yellow  things  hung  in  their  cages  in  the  sun. 


MEETS  A  PRINCE  AND  A  TENOR       127 

Signora  Scarpia  was  a  very  good  singing-teacher,  and  a 
conscientious  woman.  She  had  had  a  sister  who  was  a 
famous  operatic  contralto,  and  thus  had  heard  much  music 
and  knew  what  she  was  about  in  her  lessons. 

Beechy  sang  very  little  at  first,  because  she  was  so  young, 
but  the  Signora,  whose  own  voice  had  been  very  good,  and 
whom  only  an  overwhelming  indolence  had  deterred  from 
an  operatic  career  on  her  own  account,  used  to  sing  to 
her.  In  these  days  of  gramaphones  there  is  nothing  new 
in  the  idea,  but  in  Beechy's  early  years  it  was  an  original 
one. 

Sitting  in  a  shabby  plush  chair,  watching  the  blue  of 
the  sky  between  the  screen  of  little  cages  and  flitting  yellow 
birds,  Beechy  heard  the  soprano  parts  from  the  old  operas. 

Long  before  she  could  sing  it  Lucia's  madness  was  a  thing 
to  hum  under  her  breath  as  she  worked.  And  one  morning 
about  a  year  after  her  going  back  to  the  Two  Queens,  some- 
thing happened. 

Beechy,  a  red  handkerchief  tied  round  her  head  to  pro- 
tect her  hair  from  the  dust,  was  busily  sweeping  a  room  on 
the  first  floor  of  the  hotel. 

And  as  she  worked,  she  sang.  "  Ah,  fors'e  lui,"  she  sang, 
her  young,  rather  hard  voice  as  clear  as  a  bell.  She  was 
fifteen  now,  and  a  tall,  vigorous  girl  with  a  strong  big 
throat  and  a  large  and  flexible  mouth,  a  mouth  that  made 
itself  square  when  she  sang. 

Her  voice,  never  very  big,  was  even  then  extremely 
pliable,  and  the  roulades  and  trills  bubbled  out  as  exactly, 
as  purely,  as  if  she  had  been  a  bird. 

Suddenly  the  door  leading  to  the  next  room  was  opened 
and  a  man's  face,  half  covered  with  lather,  appeared  in  the 
crack. 


128  'BEECHY 

"Madonna/  And  who  are  you  to  sing  like  that?  Not 
much  of  a  voice,  but — but  you  can  sing." 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing.  "  Your  servant,  sir,"  she 
answered.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  sing  ?  " 

After  all,  why  shouldn't  she? 

The  man  retired  and  after  a  moment  returned  more 
fully  clothed  and  with  the  hastily  dried  lather  gleaming  on 
his  fat  face. 

"  I  am  Subiaco,"  he  said,  much  as  if  he  had  said,  "  I  am 
Napoleon." 

Beechy  dropped  her  broom.     "  Subiaco !  " 

"  Si,  Signora — servo  tuo,"  he  mocked  parodying  her  words 
of  a  few  minutes  before. 

Beechy's  feelings  cannot  be  described.  For  the  man  was 
the  greatest  Italian  tenor  of  his  day,  a  creature  to  be  spoken 
of  with  bated  breath;  to  hear  whom  even  Signora  Scarpia 
had  left  her  eyrie  and  descended,  choking,  in  stays. 

"Well?"  he  asked  sharply. 

Beechy  stared.     "  Will  you  sing  for  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  great  man  (who,  such  are  the  ups  and  downs  of 
artistic  life,  had,  ten  years  before  sold  stoves  in  Bologna), 
laughed,  his  mouth  squaring  itself  about  his  white  teeth 
as  Beechy's  did. 

"  Per  Bacco  1  Yes,  I  will  sing  for  you.  And  you  shall 
sing  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
i 

A  BUNDLE  OF  LETTERS 

THE  next  day  the  great  man  arrived,  puffing  wofully, 
at  Signora  Scarpia's  door.     He  was  accompanied  by 
his  accompanist,  a  melancholy  man  with  a  drooping 
moustache  like  a  Chinaman's. 

Signora  Scarpia,  in  a  green  plush  garment,  received  the 
two  men  with  such  a  profusion  of  thanks  and  exclamations 
of  gratitude  that  Subiaco  shut  her  up  rather  abruptly. 

"  I  heard  your  pupil  sing,"  he  said,  spreading  his  fat  red 
fingers  that  looked  like  so  many  little  sausages,  on  his 
knees.  "  You  have  taught  her  well." 

"  Yes,  I  hope  I  have.  Del  resto,  I  myself  studied  with 
Lamperti  and  my  sister  is  Giulia  Trupetti." 

"  Indeed.  Then  we  are  in  an  artistic  country.  So  much 
the  better.  How  old  are  you,  Signorina — and  what  is  your 
name?  " 

Beechy  gave  him  the  desired  information  and  subsided 
again  into  her  excited  silence. 

"  Too  young.  I  mean  too  young  for  any  sustained  work. 
You  must  stick  to  your  brooms — an'd  to  the  Signora's  care- 
ful instruction  for  several  years  yet." 

"  She  is  a  distant  cousin  of  Prince  Cavaleone,"  explained 
the  Scarpia.  "  Her  mother  was  English." 

Subiaco  shook  his  head.  He  did  not  approve  of  the 
English. 

"  Sing  something  for  me,"  he  said. 

129 


130  'BEECHY 

The  depressed  accompanist  spread  his  coat  tails  with  the 
greatest  care  over  the  back  of  the  piano  stool,  as  if  they 
were  priceless  tail  feathers  of  some  kind,  and  began  to  play. 

"What  shall  I  sing?" 

After  a  moment's  reflection  the  Scarpia  decided  in  favour 
of  an  old  Italian  Canzone,  "  Caro  mio  ben."  It  did  not 
suit  Beechy's  voice  at  all,  and  she  sang  it  very  badly. 

"  H'ml "  said  Subiaco,  rubbing  his  remarkably  azure 
chin. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Beechy  turned 
to  him.  "  May  I  sing  '  Fors'  e  lui '  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Try  it." 

And  she  sang  it  from  beginning  to  end,  without  a  fault. 
It  is  an  extremely  difficult  aria,  but  the  qualities  it  most 
calls  for,  were  the  qualities  possessed  by  the  girl  more  than 
any  other  at  that  time;  later  of  course  her  voice  became 
much  heavier — of  extreme  highness  of  pitch  and  great  flexi- 
bility. 

She  carolled  away,  a  hand  on  her  hip,  her  red  mouth 
squared,  her  eyes  dancing  with  pleasure,  and  when  she  had 
finished  the  little  man  with  the  big  diamond  in  his  shirt 
signified  his  approbation  in  the  most  unqualified  way.  He 
kissed  her  soundly. 

"  Brava,  brava!  And  to  you,  Signora!  All  my  felicita- 
tions to  you  both.  The  timbre  is  perfect  and  the  execution 
quite  extraordinary  for  so  young  a  singer.  Signorina,  if  you 
continue  to  work  you  will  one  day  be  a  very  great  coloritura- 
singer."  (This,  of  course,  was  a  mistake.) 

Signora  Scarpia  flushed  and  panted  with  gratification. 
Beechy  stood  still  by  the  piano. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  she  asked  with  sudden  ungracious- 
ness. 


A   BUNDLE   OF  LETTERS  131 

"  Mean  it  ?     Does  Camillo  Subiaco  lie  about  his  art  ?  " 

After  which  they  all  partook  of  some  sweet  white  wine 
in  small  green  glasses,  and  little  crisp  cakes  of  which  Beechy 
ate  a  great  many. 

Subiaco  was  the  kindest  of  little  men,  and  before  he  left 
he  had  given  the  Scarpia  a  voucher  for  a  third  tier  box  at 
the  opera  that  very  night. 

It  was  all  most  romantic  and  wonderful,  and  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  was  passed  by  Signora  Scarpia,  kind  soul, 
in  arranging  one  of  her  own  blouses  for  Beechy  to  wear. 

Beechy  never  forgot  that  blouse,  which  she  heartily  ad- 
mired, and  which  always,  in  her  memory,  had  about  it  a 
touch  of  magic.  It  was  pale  blue  and  had  a  black  velvet 
collar  on  which  were  stitched  little  round  flakes  of  silver. 

Beechy's  hair,  now  long,  was  loose  on  her  shoulders, 
smooth  dark  waves  reaching  nearly  to  her  waist,  hair  with 
shadows  in  the  hollows  of  its  waves  and  high  lights  of  an 
indescribable  colour  in  its  crests. 

"  You  are  very  pretty,  cara,"  pronounced  the  good 
Scarpia,  herself  resplendent  in  purple. 

Beechy  went  silently  to  a  glass-doored  wardrobe  and  con- 
templated herself. 

"  The  blouse  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  "  but  I  ?  My  mouth 
is  too  big  and  too  red  and  my  eyes  are — queer " 

Signora  Scarpia  nodded.  "  Yes,  your  eyes  are  queer, 
dear;  and  they  will  be  queerer  before  long." 

But  Beechy's  vanity  did  not  extend  to  her  physical  ap- 
pearance. She  asked  no  question  regarding  her  friend's 
speech,  and  the  friends  supped.  They  had,  that  night  of 
Beechy's  first  appearance  in  an  audience — spaghetti  with 
tomatoes  and  large  slices  of  garlicky  salami.  These,  washed 
down  with  rough  new  Chianti  and  water,  made  a  sufficiently 


i32  BEECHY 

good  supper  for  anyone,  and  there  is  a  little  Italian  res- 
taurateur near  Covent  Garden  Opera  House  who  still 
boasts  of  the  great  singer  who  some  ten  years  after  that 
famous  evening  used  to  come  to  his  place  and  beg  him  in 
rapid  Roman  dialect  to  make  her  just  such  a  spaghetti. 

The  canaries  that  night  had  been  put  to  bed,  their  little 
cages  shrouded  with  squares  of  grey  muslin;  the  window 
of  course  was  tight  closed  against  the  pernicious  evening  air ; 
the  little  room  was  warm,  ill-ventilated,  and  overfull  of 
stuffy,  shabby  furniture. 

But  to  Beechy  it  was  all  a  part  of  a  beautiful  whole 
and  as  such  she  never  forgot  it. 

At  last  the  cab  came!  A  cab!  Wicked  luxury  paid  for 
by  Beechy,  and  the  journey  was  accomplished  in  safety,  al- 
though the  horse  fell  down  and  nearly  decided  to  die  where 
he  lay. 

Signora  Scarpia,  very  magnificent  and  short  in  her  man- 
ner to  the  old  man  who  conducted  them  to  their  box,  would 
have  amused  Beechy  on  any  other  occasion,  but  the  girl  was 
too  engrossed  in  her  own  sensations  to  notice  any  external 
thing. 

"  There,"  said  Signora  Scarpia,  when  she  had  settled  her- 
self in  her  place,  "  is  the  Mayor." 

Beechy  did  not  answer.  Mayors  were  as  naught  to  her, 
and  even  the  smartly  dressed  people  in  the  boxes  below. 

To  her  the  dark  well  of  the  orchestra  and  the  curtain 
beyond  were  the  beginning  and  the  ending  of  the  world. 
Behind  that  red  velvet  was  the  stage.  The  stage  with  its 
queer  smell,  its  painted  wings,  its  dust,  its  shirt-sleeved 
men, — Life,  in  a  word. 

And  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  time  had  rolled  back  and 
that  she  must  be  standing  dressed  as  a  boy,  down  in  the 


A   BUNDLE   OF  LETTERS  133 

darkness,  waiting  for  Landucci  to  speak  to  her.  The  inter- 
vening time  was  gone,  impossible  to  realise.  The  large 
white  gloves  on  her  hands,  what  were  they?  and  the  blue 
blouse  ? 

For  a  moment  Beechy,  literally  and  honestly,  asked  her- 
self, such  was  her  excitement,  what  these  things  meant. 
Then  the  maestri  of  the  orchestra  came  out  from  the  dark 
doors  under  the  stage,  and  the  ravishing  sound  of  tuning  up 
began ;  a  sound  she  never  could  hear  without  a  certain  queer 
little  thrill  in  the  back  of  her  neck. 

The  opera  was  "  Rigoletto,"  and  it  was  well  sung.  Gilda 
was  old  but  a  good  artist,  and  as  the  duke  little  Subiaco 
was  in  his  glory. 

His  was  one  of  the  musical  beguiling,  disturbing  voices 
produced  only  in  Italy.  And  in  a  rather  common  way  he 
was  a  good  actor.  His  little  plump  legs  (cunningly  elon- 
gated by  long  heels)  were  encased  in  rose-coloured  tights, 
his  doublet  was  black  embroidered  in  silver.  And  his  wig 
— it  was  amusing,  his  wig. 

"  Com'e  bello,"  whispered  Signora  Scarpia. 

Beechy  did  not  hear  her. 

Leaning  forward  in  her  place,  the  girl  listened,  listened, 
her  eyes  half  closed  under  their  thick  white  lids. 

She  was  even  then  an  intensely  keen  critic,  and  with  her 
delight  mingled  regrets  of  the  obvious  age  of  the  over- 
painted  Gilda. 

"  I  could  sing  that,"  was  her  first  remark,  as  Gilda 
finished  her  famous  aria. 

And  there,  in  four  words,  was  her  attitude.  Could  she, 
Beatrice  Cavaleone,  do  such  and  such  a  thing,  or  could  she 
not? 

And  it  was  that  very  night  that  the  germ  of  her  great 


134  BEECHY 

idea,  the  idea  of  which,  later,  English  newspapers  were  to 
make  such  a  great  deal,  quickened  in  her  mind. 

"  How  much  do  tickets  here  cost  ?  "  she  asked  the  Scarpia, 
at  the  end  of  the  second  act.  "  I  mean,  up  there  in  the 
gallery — first  row,  in  the  middle." 

"  A  lira,  or  one  fifty — why?  " 

"  Because,"  returned  Beechy  with  great  calm,  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  come  to  the  opera  every  night." 

"  While  Subiaco  is  here?" 

"No.     Always." 

The  Scarpia  gasped,  and  opened  her  fan  with  a  rapid 
gesture  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  the  hitherto  studied 
majesty  of  her  demeanour. 

"Always?" 

"  Yes.  I  find  that  I  must  see  all  the  operas  that  there 
are.  And  in  that  way  I  shall  learn  to  act,  while  you  are 
teaching  me  how  to  sing.  For  instance,  Gilda  uses  her  arms 
as  if  they  were  wings.  She  flaps  them.  I  shall  not  do 
that." 

And  she  did  not. 

Her  great  idea  embodied  the  beginnings  of  a  very  orig- 
inal and  curious  system,  by  which  she  abided  with  the 
greatest  scrupulousness. 

It  was,  to  put  it  shortly,  a  system  of  elimination.  Daria 
used  her  arms  like  wings;  Agostini  never  stood  still;  Marie 
Malapert  attacked  the  high  notes  half  a  turn  too  low  and 
slid  up  to  them;  Augusta  Bremer  the  great  Wagnerian,  sang 
in  her  throat  and  rolled  her  eyes. 

And  all  these  defects  as  well  as  a  hundred  others  in  a 
hundred  other  singers,  Beechy  noted  and  avoided.  Her 
voice  as  I  have  said  was  never  of  the  very  first  flight,  but 
her  management  of  it  was  marvellous  and  her  acting  quite 


A   BUNDLE   OF  LETTERS  135 

the  best  of  any  living  operatic  soprano.  She  was  the  only 
one,  remember,  whose  Marguerite  was  as  young  and  inno- 
cent as  Goethe  meant  her  to  be.  Not  even  Melba  of  the 
golden  throat,  could  quite  produce  Cavaleone's  effort  of 
unprotected  piteous  youth.  It  was  when  she  was  twenty- 
nine  that  Aubepine  told  someone  he  loathed  singing 
"  Faust  "  with  her,  she  made  him  feel  such  an  unmitigated 
monster! 

Imagine  her  going  doggedly  night  after  night  to  the  gal- 
lery of  the  Costanzi,  no  matter  how  tired  she  might  be, 
no  matter  what  the  weather  was. 

All  winter  she  went  and  during  the  short  spring  season. 
Then  came  summer,  when  her  evenings  were  passed  with 
Signora  Scarpia  or  with  Father  Antonio.  The  nuns  she 
visited  fairly  often,  and  they  were  always  glad  to  see  her. 

She  had  deserted  them,  but  her  sober,  hard-working  life 
did  them  credit  and  they  loved  her. 

The  little  garden  was  very  pleasant  in  the  summer,  and 
the  young  girl  had  no  hesitation  in  declaring  that  her  visits 
were  more  frequent  in  the  summer  than  in  the  winter  for 
that  reason. 

She  never  could  see  why  her  own  innocent  preferences 
need  be  concealed. 

Occasionally  she  would  toil  up  the  Gianicolo  to  the 
shabby  old  villa  where  the  Commendatore  lived  with  a  mar- 
ried daughter. 

The  Commendatore,  discovered  by  means  of  the  address 
Prince  Cavaleone  had  given  Father  Antonio,  was  always 
glad  to  see  the  daughter  of  his  friend,  but  Beechy  did  not 
greatly  like  him.  He  was  distinctly  not  simpatico,  and  his 
attitude  towards  her  career  was  mutely  inimical.  These 
people  are  all  of  minor  importance,  but  such  as  they  were 


136  BEECHY 

they  were  Beechy's  friends  during  her  most  impressionable 
years,  and  therefore  they  must  be  described. 

All  this  time — up  to  the  day,  ten  years  after  her  meeting 
with  Camillo  Subiaco,  when  she  left  England, — she  was 
under  the  gentle,  penetrating  influence  of  the  good  nuns 
and  the  old  priest. 

At  the  same  time  she  went,  whenever  there  was  opera, 
to  her  solitary  outpost  in  the  world  of  art,  in  the  gallery 
of  the  Costanzi,  filling  her  ears  and  her  brain  with  music 
and  the  mimic  life  so  magically  fascinating  to  her.  And 
occasionally  she  would  spend  a  long  day  in  the  Street  of  the 
Violin,  hearing  all  the  news  of  her  old  friends  there,  listen- 
ing to  it  with  the  keenest  interest,  giving  quite  unasked  the 
best  advice  she  could  think  of,  keeping  fresh  in  her  heart  all 
the  memories  of  her  earliest  childhood  that  might  otherwise 
have  been  gradually  effaced  by  time. 

Could  she,  later,  when  her  own  personal  drama  came  to 
her,  have  been  expected  to  take  it  as  would  have  taken  it 
some  young  girl  with  only  one  bringing-up? 

I  say  no. 

She  had  no  book  learning  beyond  a  very  little  that  she 
had  acquired  in  the  convent,  and  she  never  loved  reading 
for  its  own  sake. 

And  one  day  in  October,  when  she  was  seventeen  and  a 
half,  something  else  happened,  and  a  new  phase  began  for 
her. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  window  one  Sunday  afternoon, 
watching  a  pouring  rain  that  she  feared  would  prevent  her 
making  her  intended  visit  to  Father  Antonio.  If  she  had 
been  sitting  straight  in  her  chair — the  old  chair  in  which 
her  father  had  always  sat — nothing  might  have  occurred. 
But  she  was  sitting  on  one  foot,  and  sidewise,  and  at  a  sud- 


A   BUNDLE   OF  LETTERS  137 

den  noise  overhead  which  she  mistook  for  a  knock,  she 
jumped  up.  On  such  trifles  as  a  bit  of  unsewn  tape  round 
the  inside  of  a  skirt,  can  so  much  hang. 

Her  foot  caught,  she  lost  her  balance,  flung  out  her  arms 
and  fell  back,  opening,  as  she  fell,  a  small  opening  in  the 
left  arm  of  the  chair. 

And  in  the  opening,  a  place  half  the  length  of  the  chair- 
arm,  were  several  letters  mostly  tied  together,  and  a  flat 
green  cardboard  box. 

Beechy,  ecstatically  surprised,  opened  the  box,  and  there 
she  found  several  things. 

A  faded  daguerreotype  of  a  young  woman  with  a  wreath 
of  flowers  balanced  on  her  very  smooth  hair;  a  bracelet 
made  of  gold,  with  "  Caroline  "  and  a  date  engraved  on  it,  a 
lock  of  faded  brown  hair,  and  a  tarnished  filagree  silver  cross 
such  as  one  can  buy  in  Rome  by  the  million  for  a  few  pence 
apiece.  Valueless  stuff;  but  to  Beechy  most  precious,  for  the 
things  had  of  course  belonged  to  her  mother,  and  as  such 
had  been  cherished  by  her  father. 

The  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Her  poor  little  mother 
had  worn  the  trinkets,  the  picture  must  be  hers,  and  the 
lock  of  hair  had  probably  been  cut  from  her  head  after  her 
death. 

She  had  never  before  missed  her  mother,  but  now,  at  the 
sight  of  the  curiously  personal  little  trifles  that  were  all 
that  was  left  of  her,  the  girl  suddenly  felt  very  lonely. 
Reverently  she  took  the  letters  from  the  yellowed  envelopes. 
There  were  five. 

Two  were  written  in  very  bad  Italian  in  a  pretty,  delicate 
hand,  and  began  "  Mio  carissimo  Giulio."  The  other  three 
were  dated  Herne  Road,  Fulham,  some  time  before  her  own 
birth,  and  were  in  three  different  handwritings. 


138  BEECP1Y 

But  they  were  in  English  and  Beechy  could  not  read  one 
word  of  them. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  there  in  the  dull  little  room, 
the  letters  and  the  trinkets  on  her  lap. 

After  all  life  was  a  sad  thing.  Her  poor  little  foreign 
mother  Caroline — why  had  she  had  to  die,  and  leave  her 
little  baby? 

As  she  dreamed,  her  eyes  on  the  empty  cradle,  Beechy 
almost  saw  her  own  dusky  six  months'  old  head  on  the  little 
pillow. 

"How  I  must  have  missed  her,"  she  thought.  "Poor 
little  baby!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
'ENRY  PEECRAFT'S  LETTER 

THERE  was  in  the  Convent  a  little  old  Sister  who 
had  once  been  in  England,  and  who  was  supposed 
to  enjoy  a  complete  mastery  of  the  barbarous  tongue 
of  that  island. 

This  was  Sister  Caterina  who  spent  that  part  of  her  life 
that  was  not  engaged  in  prayer,  surrounded  by  great  baskets 
and  pots  of  different  sorts  of  vegetables  that  she  was  en- 
gaged in  transforming  into  various  kinds  of  soup  for  the 
great  household. 

She  was  a  small  squat  woman  with  bright  little  black 
eyes  and  a  broad  mouth  scarred  with  smallpox.  The 
daughter  of  a  poor  peasant,  she  had  grown  up  in  the  Cam- 
pagna  under  the  shadow  of  an  old  bit  of  aqueduct.  Her 
childhood  was  passed  in  hard  out-of-door  labour,  man's 
work,  and  even  now,  after  years  of  vegetable-preparing,  her 
arms  were  the  strongest  in  the  Convent. 

And  while  she  worked,  digging,  ploughing,  binding  up  the 
scant  sheaves,  her  mind  with  dogged  persistency  was  with 
the  Blessed  Mother  and  the  Saints. 

To  her  they  were  the  whole  romance  of  life,  and  indeed, 
regarded  simply  as  legend,  the  lives  of  the  saints  are  very 
charming  reading. 

A  famous  atheist  has  said  that  the  story  of  Christ's  birth 
is  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  fiction  ever  invented.  And  to 

139 


i4o  BEECHY 

the  poor  peasant-girl  believing  reverently  every  scrap  of  lore 
that  came  her  way  and  pondering  it  over  and  over  in  her 
heart,  her  real  life  was  the  dream  and  her  dream-life  the 
real. 

So  when  her  father  died  and  her  brothers  went  away  to 
America,  her  ideal  was  fulfilled  and  she  became  a  nun. 

And  now  she  had  been  for  thirty-five  years  preparing 
and  washing  vegetables  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Convent  of  San 
Franceschino,  and  her  mind  had  become  a  vast  storehouse  of 
holy  legend. 

She  was  sitting  by  a  window  one  day  in  October,  paring 
turnips.  A  picturesque  red  place,  the  kitchen,  with  smoke- 
stained  arched  roof,  and  dark  angles  lighted  by  the  gleam 
of  copper  pots  and  kettles. 

Several  Sisters  bustled  about  in  the  distance,  near  the 
stoves,  preparing  dinner,  but  Sister  Caterina  was  in  a  world 
of  her  own. 

She  was  back  in  the  middle-ages  living  over  with  a  cer- 
tain holy  woman  her  cruel  experiences  under  (Oh,  horror, 
hardly  to  be  thought  of)  a  wicked  Mother  Superior. 

The  height  of  cruelty  was  reached  when  the  wicked 
woman  ordered  the  poor  girl  to  bring  her  fried  snow-balls 
for  her  supper,  and  the  miracle  consisted  of  the  obedient 
frying  of  the  snow-balls. 

Sister  Caterina's  fingers  flew  over  her  turnips,  but  her 
eyes  were  veiled.  Surely  it  was  a  very  wonderful  miracle, 
and  its  humble  worker  was  now  a  blessed  saint  in  Paradise ! 

The  hard-featured  old  woman's  expression  was  very  beau- 
tiful in  its  simple  reverence. 

When  Beechy,  her  cheeks  glowing  with  her  quick  walk  in 
the  autumn  air,  came  into  the  kitchen,  the  Sisters  all  greeted 
her  affectionately. 


'ENRY  PEECRAFTS  LETTER  141 

"  Well,  thanks,  very  well — and  you  all  ?  No,  thanks, 
nothing  to  eat — I  can  stay  only  a  few  moments,  for  I  have 
an  engagement.  I  want  to  see — ah,  there  she  is " 

Sister  Caterina  was  surprised,  for  Beechy  had  never 
wasted  much  time  on  her.  The  good  woman  was  too  ab- 
sorbed in  her  visions  to  be  very  amusing  to  the  young  girl. 
But  now  Beechy  needed  her  and  of  course  came  to  her  with- 
out hesitation. 

"You  speak  English,  Sister?" 

"  Ah,  yes,  Bici  mia.  Was  I  not  three  years  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight  with  the  dear  Sisters  ?  " 

Beechy  sat  down  and  took  from  her  pocket  the  letters  she 
had  found  a  few  days  before. 

"  These  letters  are  written  to  my  mother  by  her  people 
in  England.  I  want  you  to  read  them  to  me." 

Sister  Caterina  wiped  her  hands  on  her  blue  apron  and 
put  on  her  spectacles. 

"  I  cannot  read  the  English  well,"  she  confessed,  "  they 
spell  it  in  a  manner  quite  senseless!  But  I  will  try " 

Bici  waited  patiently,  going  over  in  her  mind  a  difficult 
bit  of  recitative  in  "  Somnambula." 

It  was  a  pleasant  place,  the  warm  old  kitchen,  and  the 
girl  had  no  fastidious  dislike  of  the  smell  of  cooking. 

"  If  we  eat  it,  why  can't  we  smell  it  ?  "  she  asked  some- 
one years  later. 

Outside  in  the  old  garden  the  trees  tossed  in  a  high  wind, 
and  in  the  city  dust  rolled  in  clouds.  To  workers,  the  mere 
fact  of  cessation  from  work  and  being  in  warmth,  suffices 
for  their  pleasure,  and  Beechy  was  a  worker. 

One  of  the  nuns  took  from  the  fire  a  great  copper  full 
of  boiled  potatoes,  and  began  piling  them  up  on  platters. 
It  was  dinner-time. 


142  BEECHY 

Beef  was  boiling  hard  too,  and  the  nuns  hurried  about  in 
cheerful  confusion. 

"  H'm!  She  says — they  were  angry,  it  seems.  They 
1  much-a-displeased  ' — '  molto  dispiaciuto.'  They  not  wish 
her  to  marry  an  Italian !  " 

The  old  woman's  face  expressed  amused  contempt  for 
this  ridiculous  attitude  of  mind. 

"  They  say  she  should  come  back  and  marry  'Enry — 
Enrico  somebody.  The  father  was  ill.  And  they  have  all 
been  to  the  capella  to  pray.  Even  in  England,  you  see, 
prayer  is  the  best  thing ! " 

The  next  letter,  written  a  month  later  was  found  to 
mean  that  the  disapproved  marriage  had  taken  place.  "  She 
has  made  a  bed — what  that  can  mean? — and  must  lie  on  it. 
That  means  that  she  was  very  ill,  probably.  And  she  is 
never  to  write  to  them  again.  And  the  father  was  very 
ill " 

Beechy  thrust  out  her  lip.  "  Never  to  write  to  them ! 
A  nice,  kind  family  that!" 

Sister  Caterina  caught  up  a  turnip  and  pared  it  with 
masterly  swiftness. 

"  They  were  probably  very  grand  people,"  she  said,  "  and 
very  rich.  And  rich  English  people,  oh  so  proud." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Beechy  suddenly,  "  that  they  are 
rich?" 

"  All  English  people  are  either  very  rich  or  beggars. 
But  why?" 

"  Read  the  other  letter,  please,  dear  Sister." 

The  other  letter  was  written  by  one  Henry  Pyecraft 
and  after  stating  briefly  that  old  Mr.  Smith  had  died  sud- 
denly the  day  before,  informed  Mrs.  Cavaleone  that  the 
family  begged  her  not  to  write  to  them  again.  "  They  are 


'ENRY  PEECRAFTS  LETTER  143 

very  just,  but  very  unforgiving  as  you  know,  and  they  will 
never  forgive  you.  I  forgive  you,  though,  Carrie,"  he  con- 
tinued, in  his  rather  ornate  writing,  in  which  the  upstrokes 
were  delicate  and  the  downstrokes  heavy.  "  I  forgive  you 
with  all  my  heart.  Please  buy  with  this  five-pound  note 
some  little  present  for  your  baby.  And  I  pray  God  that 
you  may  be  happy.  Yours  always,  Henry  Pyecraft." 

"  He  was  rich,  too,"  declared  Sister  Caterina.  "  Five 
pounds,  that  is — vediano  un  po' — 120  francs!  A  hundred 
and  twenty  francs  to  buy  a  little  present  for  her  baby." 

"  That  was  me,"  observed  Beechy  absently. 

She  sat  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  her  hands 
clasped  round  one  knee. 

Against  the  dull  grey  background  of  the  autumnal 
garden  her  warmly  coloured  face  stood  out  clearly.  She 
was  thinking,  her  brows  drawn  sharply  together,  her  red 
lips  still  extended  a  little.  "  He  was  a  good  man,"  she 
said.  "  I  like  him." 

The  great  bell  calling  the  nuns  to  their  midday  meal 
broke  up  the  little  conference,  and  Beechy  with  hurried 
farewells  took  her  leave. 

The  letters  had  disappointed  her,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  Sister  Caterina's  suggestion  as  to  the  worldly  im- 
portance of  the  writers. 

"  If  they  are  rich  they  ought  to  be  good  to  me, — at  least 
that  Signer  Peecraft — Signora  Scarpia  is  right,  I  ought  to 
learn,  to  study.  If  I  wrote  to  Signer  Peecraft?" 

She  wrote  to  Signer  Peecraft.  She  wrote  a  brief  but 
comprehensive  statement  of  her  situation,  and  then  had  it 
translated  at  a  "  bureau "  where  such  work  was  done,  and 
when  she  had  posted  it,  she  waited  for  the  answer. 

The  answer  came,  and  after  a  consultation  with  the  faith- 


144  'BEECHY 

ful  Scarpia,  it,  too,  was  taken  to  the  bureau  for  accurate 
translation. 

Beechy  never  forgot  her  reading  of  Henry  Pyecraft'* 
letter. 

She  took  it  into  the  nearest  church  and  sat  down  to  read 
it  by  the  candles  on  a  side  altar  to  the  Madonna. 

"  My  dear  child,"  it  began,  "  your  letter  has  greatly 
puzzled  me.  I  was  very  fond  of  your  poor  mother,  an'd 
deeply  mourned  her  loss.  But  a  few  years  ago  I  married 
her  sister  Augusta,  and  Augusta,  who  is  a  woman  of  very 
strong  feelings,  has  never  forgiven  your  mother  for  becom- 
ing a  papist." 

At  this  word,  left  in  its  original  form,  for  the  reason 
that  Italian  has  for  it  no  exact  equivalent,  Beechy  made  a 
long  halt. 

What  was  a  papist?  Evidently  something  very  bad. 
And  yet  it  could  not  have  been  very  bad  or  her  father 
would  not  so  have  loved  her  mother. 

"  I  am  greatly  interested  in  what  you  tell  me  of  your 
voice,  but  we  think  the  operatic  career  a  very  wrong  one, 
Your  Aunt  Augusta  considers  opera  absolutely  sinful,  and 
I  am  sure  would  never  consent  to  knowing  you  if  you  con~ 
tinue  in  your  present  way  of  thinking.  Could  you  not  give 
up  the  perilous  plan?  If  you  do,  I  am  sure  I  can  persuade 
your  Aunt  Augusta  to  allow  you  to  come  and  visit  us.  God 
has  blessed  us  plentifully,  and  I  would  love  to  give  to  poor 
Carrie's  girl  out  of  my  abundance.  I  have  not  yet  men- 
tioned your  letter  to  your  Aunt  Augusta,  but  if  you  will 
write  me  that  you  will  give  up  this  plan  of  singing  in  opera, 
I  will  approach  her  on  the  matter.  God  bless  you  my  dear 
child.  "  Yours  truly, 

"  HENRY  PYECRAFT." 


'ENRY  PEECRAFTS  LETTER  145 

Beechy  sat  for  some  time  in  the  dusky  old  church,  her 
hands  clasped  on  the  letter. 

It  was  very  quiet ;  at  a  distant  altar,  several  people  knelt, 
shapeless  dark  masses  on  the  stone  floor;  tall  candles  burned 
motionless  in  the  still  air. 

In  a  stained  glass  window  over  the  high  altar  the  figure 
of  Saint  George  stood  out  against  the  dull  sky  in  a 
mysterious  glow  of  colour. 

He  held  a  great  sword  that  was  about  to  pierce  the  neck 
of  the  writhing  dragon,  and  his  billowing  cloak  was  cherry- 
coloured  above  his  armour. 

Beechy  watched  him  for  several  minutes,  her  mind  a 
perfect  blank.  This  was  a  thing  that  happened  to  her  oc- 
casionally, and  was,  as  a  rule,  the  preliminary  to  some  im- 
portant decision. 

It  was  is  if,  subconsciously,  she  cleared  her  brain  of  all 
thought,  and  that  the  decision  when  it  came  to  her  should 
flash  clean  in  a  clean  surface. 

Then  she  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  Poor  'Enry  Peecraft,"  she  said  to  herself. 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  knew  that  she  was  going  to  Eng- 
land. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  ROVING  DROP 

GOOD-BYE,  dear  Father  Antonio.  Give  all  the 
dear  Sisters  my  love  again,  and  the  orphans. 
Good-bye,  Signora  Campi,  it  was  good  of  you  to 
come  to  see  me  off!  Dearest  Scarpia,  thank  you  again  a 
thousand  times  for  all  that  you  have  done  for  me.  Addio, 
Lamberti  Caro  vecchio — Addio,  Signora  Marianna — Addio, 
tutti — addio, — addio, " 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window  as  the  train  started,  a 
bouquet  in  each  hand,  her  hat  on  one  side,  her  cheeks  crimson 
with  excitement. 

The  dears,  how  good  they  had  all  been  to  her,  and  how 
kind  it  was  of  them  to  come  to  the  station  to  see  her  off! 
God  bless  them  all. 

Then, — they  were  out  of  sight,  gone;  they  were  a  part 
of  the  past. 

The  present  consisted  of  a  third  class  compartment  in 
the  train  bound  north.  And  the  future — a  grim  Aunt 
Augusta  and  a  small,  piteous,  pale  'Enry  Peecraft. 

She  knew  that  he  was  small  and  piteous,  though  she  had 
neither  written  to  nor  heard  from  him  since  that  day  in  the 
church  a  week  ago. 

One  of  her  great-uncles,  Ranieri  Cavaleone,  had  been  a 
wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth;  he  had  travelled  all  his 
life,  roughing  it  cheerfully  in  the  then  almost  unknown 
quarters  of  the  globe,  living  on  dried  meat  and  native  food, 

146 


THE  ROVING  DROP  147 

sleeping  on  the  ground,  or  in  horrible  huts,  when,  a  very 
rich  man,  he  might  have  lived  like  a  king  in  any  civilised 
place.  This  because  he  had  the  magic  drop  in  his  veins 
that  prevents  its  owner  (or  its  slave)  from  ever  settling 
down.  And  Beechy  had  inherited  from  this  uncle  a  per- 
centage of  the  magic  drop.  She  was  a  born  traveller.  Not 
only  were  discomforts  as  nothing  to  her,  but  the  mere  fact 
of  being  in  motion  filled  her  with  an  inexplicable  exhilara- 
tion of  the  senses. 

It  seemed  to  her,  all  her  life,  that  she  saw  and  heard 
with  marvellously  increased  keenness  the  minute  she  was 
moving.  And  that  early  November  morning  she  was  in  a 
train  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

A  fat  and  dirty  priest  dozed  opposite  her.  Next  him 
dozed  a  peasant  in  a  red-lined  cloak.  There  were  two  chil- 
dren in  the  compartment,  one  of  whom  had  a  surgical  band- 
age round  its  head.  Then  there  was  their  mother,  a  gaudily 
dressed  woman  with  ugly  sly  eyes. 

An  unattractive  crowd  enough,  but  keenly  interesting  to 
Beechy,  for  they  were  people.  She  wondered  about  them. 
"Why  the  old  priest  was  so  dirty,  why  his  housekeeper  didn't 
make  him  shave;  why  the  peasant  knew  that  the  red  lining 
would  change  his  cloak  from  a  mere  covering  to  an  orna- 
mental garment  full  of  romance.  Why  the  child  had  had 
an  operation;  why  it  smelt  so  very  badly  of  some  strong 
drug;  why  the  mother  was  so  unpleasant  to  behold.  She 
wondered  how  old  they  all  were,  what  their  names  were. 

Then  the  marvel  of  the  flying  landscape  caught  and  held 
her;  the  beautiful  unrolling  of  the  view;  the  mystery  of 
the  ever- just-to-be-rounded  curve,  the  glory  of  the  sudden 
revelation  as  the  train  flew  along. 

"  There  will  be  a  house  there  to  the  right  and  children 


i48  BEECHY 

at  the  door  " — she  thought,  making  a  kind  of  wager  with 
herself. 

They  travelled  into  a  heavy  rain-storm,  when  for  the  first 
time  she  saw  the  beauties  of  flying  cloud-shadows  over  white 
mountains. 

They  paused  in  stations  where  little  dramas  of  greetings 
and  good-byes  were  taking  place,  as  they  always  are,  bring- 
ing small  pangs  of  sympathy  or  envy  to  the  imaginative 
beholder. 

It  was  a  new  world  to  the  girl. 

The  hours  passed ;  she  changed  into  another  train,  leaving 
all  her  companions  and  stepping  into  a  new  act  of  life,  as  it 
seemed  to  her  theatre-soaked  mind. 

Here,  during  the  -night,  she  made  friends  with  a  tear- 
stained  girl  of  about  twenty,  and  the  girl  told  her  that  her 
lover  had  deserted  her,  and  cried  and  moaned,  her  hands 
to  her  breast. 

"  What  did  you  do — to  make  him  go,  I  mean  ?  "  asked 
Beechy,  watching  her  keenly. 

"Nothing!  I  was  just  the  same.  I  didn't  change — it 
was  he  who  changed.  He  used  to  call  me  a  white  blossom 
because  I  am  so  pale,  but  now  he  says  I  am  like  a 
cream-cheese  and  he  hates  the  sight  of  me!  It  is  the 
same  face  but  his  eyes  have  changed,"  mourned  the  poor 
creature. 

"  No  one  has  more  than  one  face,"  she  added,  suddenly 
sullen. 

Beechy,  her  cheek  resting  against  her  dirty  hand,  nodded 
thoughtfully. 

"  Actresses  have,"  she  mused.  "  And — any  woman 
might." 

"Any  woman  might?    Might  have  more  than  one  face? 


THE  ROVING  DROP  149 

That's  all  you  know,"  cried  the  little  victim  of  man's 
caprice,  with  disdain.  "  You  have  never  loved  anyone,  so 
how  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  If  I  loved  a  man,"  Beechy  returned,  unmoved,  with 
that  characteristic  immovability  of  hers,  "  I  should  not  let 
my  face  bore  him  any  more  than  I  should  let  my  mind." 

Something  in  her  manner  arrested  the  other  girl,  who 
stared  as  she  mopped  her  face  with  her  very  black  hand- 
kerchief. 

"  How — how  would  you  do  ?  "  she  asked,  presently. 

When  Beechy  had  followed  her  idea  to  what  seemed  to 
her  its  logical  conclusion,  she  answered: 

"  If  I  was  a  laughing  woman  and  I  saw  the  laughing 
began  to  bore  him,  I'd  stop  laughing  and  be — mysterious. 
Or  if  I  was  a  sad-faced  woman  with  tragic  eyes,  and  he 
began  to  tire  of  tragedy — then  I'd  do  a  little  comedy  for 
him." 

"Do  comedy?" 

"  Yes." 

"  But — that  wouldn't  be  natural,  it  would  be  acting" 
said  the  other. 

Beechy  laughed  thoughtfully.  "  It  would  be  natural," 
she  said,  "  to  me.  Acting  is  natural  to  some  people." 

Wisdom  beyond  her  years,  but  the  logical  outcome  of  the 
effect  of  her  life  on  her  particular  nature.  To  her  Camille, 
Lucrezia,  Gilda,  and  the  rest  of  them  were  real  women,  and 
she  had  learnt  about  women  from  them. 

She  slept  for  several  hours  after  this  conversation,  and 
when  she  awoke  the  other  girl  had  gone,  gone  for  ever,  but 
leaving  a  memory,  and  having  been  an  instrument  in 
Beechy's  development,  as  we  are  all  instruments  in  each 
other's  development,  inasmuch  as  she  caused  the  girl  to 


150  BEECHY 

formulate  an  idea  that  had  hitherto  been  merely  a  nebulous 
dream-thought. 

Many  people's  dream-thoughts  remain  nebulous  to  their 
life's  end,  because  formulative  crystallisation  never  comes  to 
them,  and  they  go  their  way  apparently  theory-less. 

Nothing  much  in  the  way  of  events  broke  the  monotony 
of  the  long  journey,  until  she  found  herself  standing  on  a 
wharf  looking  at  the  first  ship  she  had  ever  seen. 

A  magic  thing  with  a  network  of  ropes  against  a  cold 
blue  sky,  a  thing  that  pulsed  and  groaned  as  it  made  ready 
to  start  on  its  journey,  as  if  it  feared  the  sea. 

With  her  premature  appreciation  of  the  value  of  sensa- 
tions, Beechy  went  below  at  once  and  waited  until  the 
packet  was  well  under  way  before  she  looked  at  the  sea. 

She  sat  in  the  stuffy  little  cabin,  round  which  thrifty 
ladies  were  taking  time  by  the  forelock  in  the  matter  of 
lying  down  places,  for  quite  half  an  hour  after  the  first 
strange  pulse  that  the  packet  began  as  it  left  the  wharf. 

Then  she  crept  quietly  up  to  the  deck. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  at  night  and  the  moon  shone 
bright  in  a  cloud-filled  sky. 

Beechy  walked  up  the  deserted  deck  and,  after  shutting 
her  eyes  for  a  moment,  took  her  first,  carefully  hoarded  look 
at  the  sea. 

Her  first  feeling  was  one  of  intense  disappointment.  The 
horizon  line  was  so  near!  She  had  imagined  a  vastness  not 
to  be  described,  but  this  she  had  seen  in  the  Campagna,  and 
she  felt  cheated. 

Then,  as  the  ship  throbbed  its  way  in  the  silence  and 
clouds  flitted  across  the  moon,  and  the  moon's  light  fitful 
and  strange  fell  on  the  little,  fine,  crimped  waves,  it  came 
to  her,  the  Wonder  of  the  Sea. 


iTHE  ROPING  DROP  151 

People  who  do  not  love  the  sea  will  not  understand. 
People  who  do  love  the  sea  will  need  no  words  from  me; 
they  will  have  but  to  close  their  eyes  and  it  will  come  back 
to  them,  the  feeling  that  is  part  sadness,  part  exultation, 
part  a  never-ending  amazement  in  and  love  of  its  beauty  and 
responsiveness. 

And  this  Beechy  felt  that  first  night  as  she  made  her 
curious  little  flight  to  her  mother's  country. 

Her  reasons  for  going  to  England  would  have  been,  had 
she  attempted  to  give  them,  extremely  vague.  But  she  had 
made  no  attempt  to  explain  even  to  herself  her  reason  for 
this  extraordinary  step.  When  Father  Antonio  asked  her 
why  she  was  going,  the  kind  old  man  had  in  his  own  mind 
a  ready  reason  for  her,  and  required  no  real  answer.  She 
was  going  because  she  wished  to  see  her  mother's  people, 
he  returned  the  answer  himself. 

Signora  Scarpia  believed  that  she  was  going  to  claim 
from  these  wealthy  British  relations  the  education  they  in 
a  remote  way  seemed  to  owe  her.  And  there  was  some- 
thing of  truth  in  each  of  these  theories.  Perhaps  in  most 
of  the  theories  that  people  make  about  each  other's  actions 
there  is  something  of  truth. 

But — Beechy  was  going  to  England  in  the  first  place  be- 
cause her  great-uncle  had  gone  to  India  and  Japan;  because 
the  far-off  country  called  her,  because  she  had  the  roaming 
drop  of  blood,  because  her  time  had  come  to  fold  her  tent 
and  start  into  the  wilderness. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BEECHY  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON 

THE  first  arrival  of  anyone  in  London  is  always  an 
event  worthy  of  description,  although  it  has  been 
done  over  and  over  again,  and  will  be  done  over  and 
over  again  until  the  end  of  writing. 

George  Ponderro's  advent  in  the  old  city,  in  Mr.  Wells's 
Tono  Bungay  is  a  marvel  of  deeply  felt  description.  Mr. 
Wells  is  as  noted  a  town  lover  as  was  Charles  Lamb  or 
Dickens,  and  there  is  something  of  both  these  old  masters 
in  the  new  master's  manner. 

Young  George  Ponderro,  a  country-bred  youth,  saw  Lon- 
don in  one  light, — Beatrice  Cavaleone,  Roman  citizen,  saw  it 
in  another. 

She  arrived  in  the  first  place,  at  Liverpool  Street,  and  at 
eight  in  the  morning. 

It  had  been  raining,  but  had  turned  cold,  and  as  her 
cab  made  its  way  up  Fleet  Street,  a  fog  crept  out  of  the 
dark  corners  of  the  world  and  spread  itself  out,  saying  to  the 
little  eager-eyed  Roman,  "  Here,  my  dear  young  lady  is  the 
real  thing  in  the  fog  line." 

And  it  was. 

For  the  gods,  true  to  their  principle  of  sending  to  people 
the  thing  they  dramatically  require,  sent  Beechy  that  morn- 
ing what  an  Olympian  shopkeeper,  dealing  in  elements  and 
weathers,  would  surely  call  "  a  most  elegant  thing  in  fogs." 
Down  it  came,  or  up,  or  out,  it  came,  growing  yellower  and 

152 


BEECHY  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON        153 

yellower,  hiding  first  the  sharp  corners  of  the  buildings  then 
crawling  down  and  up  and  round,  until  everything  was  lost 
and  void. 

Now  It  so  happened  that  Sister  Caterina's  one  day  in 
London  had  been  just  such  a  day  as  this.  And  naturally 
her  impression  of  London  was  that  of  a  Southern  peasant 
who  has  been  for  twenty-four  hours  smothered  in  a  steam- 
ing blanket. 

Sister  Caterina  had  not  been  enthusiastic  about  London. 

As  to  Beechy,  mark  this. 

Her  entry  into  London  was  one  of  terror.  The  fog 
frightened  her  out  of  her  wits.  Huddled  in  her  cab  she 
sat  peering  with  hot  eyes  into  the  awful  brown  darkness 
that  was  gobbling  the  world. 

London,  the  London  she  was  to  learn  to  know  and  love 
as  very  few  Latins  have  ever  known  and  loved  it,  met  her 
in  this  wicked  way. 

"  'Ave  to  go  a  bit  slow,  'ere,  Miss,"  remarked  the  cabby, 
a  new  horror,  a  disembodied  voice  in  the  obscurity. 

The  cab  crawled  its  way,  and  not  one  thing  could  Beechy 
see  except  dimly  burning  red  lights  now  and  again,  and 
fragments  like  fragments  from  the  antique,  had  she  but 
known  it,  a  head  here,  an  arm  there,  a  horse's  ears  thrust 
up  towards  her,  followed  by  a  dreadful  grinding  of  wheels. 

And  Beechy  in  her  hansom,  wept  helplessly. 

Near  the  bank  a  policeman  came  and  talked  to  her,  but 
she  of  course  could  not  understand  him  and  mutely  held  out 
the  card  with  Mr.  Pyecraft's  address  on  it,  as  she  had  suc- 
cessfully done  to  the  cabby. 

The  policeman's  face  went  out  as  he  tried  to  read  the 
name.  It  was  awful.  It  was  like  Hell  as  pictured  in  an 
old  book  in  Father  Antonio's  little  library. 


154  BEECHY 

"  Oh,  Rome,  oh,  my  beautiful  'dear  Rome,  where  the  sun 
always  shines!  " 

Presently  the  cabman  drew  up  at  the  kerb  and  dis- 
mounting from  his  invisible  perch  waited  for  his  fare  to 
get  out.  "  No  use  crying,  Miss,"  the  man  said.  "  No  use 
in  hanythink,  as  far  as  that  goes.  But  I  daren't  go  any 
farder.  My  'oss  is  young  an'  it  ain't  safe " 

Beechy  understood,  and  climbed  obediently  down.  She 
understood  that  she  was  now  deserted  by  even  the  cabman. 
And  anything  seemed  better  than  creeping  on  in  that  end- 
less line  of  invisible,  noisy  vehicles. 

A  chemist's  shop  near  where  they  had  stopped,  was  throw- 
ing something  like  real  light  into  the  fog,  and  the  cabman 
after  a  short  altercation  persuaded  a  ragged  man  with  an 
awful  face,  such  as  Beechy  had  never  seen  in  all  her  .life 
among  ragged  people,  to  drag  her  little  box  across  the  pave- 
ment to  the  shop. 

Beechy  opened  her  purse.  She  had  a  pound  in  shillings, 
but  she  had  meant  to  ask  her  Aunt  Augusta  how  much  she 
ought  to  pay.  The  cabman  looked  at  her  as  she  hesitated. 
He  was  a  seedy  cabman  and  a  thirsty  one,  as  his  nose  testi- 
fied. But  he  was  a  kind  cabman,  too. 

When  she  offered  her  little  store  to  him  he  held  up  two 
stumpy  red  fingers  and  made  a  little  speech  about  his  own 
inherent  qualities. 

She  paid  him  without  a  word  and  went  into  the  shop. 

Messrs.  Thatcher  and  Gubbins,  the  chemists,  were  both 
much  surprised  by  the  self-possessed  advent  into  their  shop 
of  a  tall  strange-looking  girl  and  a  small  brass-nailed  box. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss,"  began  Gubbins,  whose  natural 
gifts  had  elevated  him,  although  the  junior  partner,  into  the 
position  of  leader  where  customers  were  concerned. 


'BEECHY   ARRIVES  IN  LONDON         155 

"  Gmahna,"  returned  Beechy  civilly,  this  being  the  form 
in  which  the  words,  obviously  a  greeting,  reached  her  ears. 
"  Gmahnd." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  this  morning ?" 

"  Non  parlo  Inglese,"  she  answered  him  firmly.  Her 
fears  had  vanished  the  moment  her  foot  touched  the  ground, 
and  she  was  afraid  of  no  mere  tangible  man,  particularly 
when  fie  was  a  shopkeeper  and  had  no  chin  at  all  unless  it 
had  slipped  down  into  a  place  of  concealment  behind  his 
high  collar. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon " 

"  Non  parlo  Inglese.  Sono  Italiana,"  she  repeated,  her 
eye  fixed  on  his  in  a  way  that  made  him  feel,  Briton  though 
he  was,  and  a  Briton  in  his  own  shop,  a  mere  interloper. 

"  Italiana, — ah,  yes,  just  so,  Italian !  Dear  me,  Miss,  I 
am  afraid  we  can't  be  of  much  use  to  you  here, — ah, 
Thatcher?" 

Thatcher  shook  his  head.  "  Sit  down,  Miss,"  he  said, 
adding  to  the  chinless  one,  "  poor  girl,  she's  lost  in  the  fog. 
And  no  wonder,  Gilbert,  just  look  at  it.  Hi,  boy,  close 
that  door  will  you  ?  " 

The  errand  boy  jumped  violently  and  did  as  he  was 
bidden. 

Meantime  Beechy  had  sat  down  and  was  sitting  quietly, 
her  hands  folded. 

She  was  waiting  for  the  fog  to  go  away. 

The  two  men  watched  her  for  about  five  minutes. 

"  Probably  just  come  from  Liverpool  Street,  Tom,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Gubbins. 

Thatcher  nodded. 

"And  probably _dying  for  a  cup  of  tea, — eh,  Gil?" 

Thus  Beechy,  busy  with  the  aria  in  the  first  act  of  "  A'fda," 


156  BEECHY 

was  awakened  to  real  life  by  that  horrid  incident,  her  first 
cup  of  tea. 

Thanking  the  genial  Gubbins,  she  stirred  the  strange 
looking  liquid  and  tasted  it  with  wariness. 

"Ugh!"  she  said  frankly. 

She  tried  it  again,  nipping  at  the  side  of  the  cup  like 
a  rabbit  investigating  a  new  leaf. 

No,  it  was  very  nasty. 

"  Thanks,"  she  said,  "  but  I  don't  need  it.     I  am  not  ill." 

And  she  gave  it  back  to  the  young  man,  whose  indignation 
was  intense. 

"By  Jove,  Tom!" 

Beechy  smiled  at  him  and  he  forgave  her. 

"  Perhaps  they  don't  drink  tea  in  Italy,"  he  suggested, 
and  Mr.  Thatcher  agreed,  "  Perhaps  they  don't." 

At  the  end  of  the  first  hour,  a  customer  came  in,  an  old 
woman  with  toothache. 

She  looked  curiously  at  the  motionless  figure  in  the  chair, 
but  said  nothing. 

The  next  person  to  come,  however,  was  a  little  doctor 
who  wished  to  make  some  complaint  about  the  making  up 
of  an  ointment  that  he  had  prescribed  for  one  of  his  patients. 

"You  fellows  don't  mix  your  ointments  well  enough," 
he  said,  "  that's  what  7  complain  of,  you  don't  mix  'em — 
Hello,  what's  this?" 

He  had  caught  sight  of  Beechy  and  he  bristled  with 
curiosity. 

"  It's — a  lady  who  came  in  out  of  the  fog,"  explained 
Thatcher.  "An  Italian " 

"Out  of  the  fog!     The  fog  is  going  to  last  for  hours." 

"Then  she'll  probably  stay  for  hours,"  put  in  Gubbins, 
humorously.  Beechy  looked  up. 


BEECHY  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON         157 

"  Do  you  speak  Italian  ? "  she  aske'd  in  her  own  lan- 
guage. 

"  Blowed  if  I  do,"  puffed  the  little  doctor,  his  grizzled 
beard  in  his  hand. 

"Rum  looking  young  woman,  isn't  she?  Well, — about 
that  ointment.  You  fellows  don't  mix  enough.  Ichthyol 
needs  the  deuce  of  a  lot  of  mixin' " 

Beechy,  back  in  Egypt,  was  singing  mutely. 

"  La    nella   foreste   vergine,    di    fiori    profumati " 

Her  silent  rendering  of  the  lingering,  poetic  words  gave 
to  her  face  a  look  of  the  utmost  pathos. 

Poor  little  Ethiopian  princess,  sighing  for  her  virgin 
forests  and  scented  flowers,  how  well  she,  Beechy,  could  feel 
it  here  in  this  awful  country  where  clouds  fell  out  of  the 
sky  into  the  streets  and  it  was  night  by  day. 

"  Then  under  my  sky " 

Her  eyebrows  pathetically  arched  over  wide-opened  eyes 
she  went  over  the  words,  leaning  the  lovely  music,  feeling 
it. 

"  I  say,  Gil,  just  look  at  *er,"  whispered  Mr.  Thatcher. 

"  Mad,"  affirmed  Mr.  Gubbins,  "  mad  as  an  'atter." 

But  mad  or  not  she  seemed  harmless  enough,  and  sat 
with  an  appalling  quietude  in  her  corner  until  after  half 
past  eleven. 

Then,  when  the  fog  had  resolved  itself  into  a  mere  hag- 
gard ghost  of  its  former  monstrous  self,  she  rose,  and 
pointed  through  the  window. 

"  She  means  it's  clearing, " 

Beechy  then  went  through  a  pantomime.  First  she 
trotted  like  a  horse,  her  head  down,  but  tossed  and  dragged 
at  by  imaginary  reins. 


158  BEECHY 

Then  she  pretended  to  lift  her  box  and  deposit  it  on  the 
top  of  a  hansom. 

Then  she  took  her  purse  and  opened  it. 

Mr.  Gubbins's  mirth  was  unrestrained. 

"  My  word,  what  a  girl !  Look  at  that,  Tom,  she's  lift- 
ing up  her  box-- " 

Thatcher  nodded  to  Beechy.  "  All  right,"  he  said,  "  I 
understand.  Boy — fetch  a  hansom." 

The  hansom  was  fetched,  Beechy  gravely  watched  the 
hoisting  of  her  box  and  then,  turning,  she  bowed  to  the  two 
men. 

"  Grazie,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  chair.  "  Grazfe 
tanto." 

Then,  still  quite  seriously,  she  pointed  to  her  heart. 

"  She  means  thanks,"  babbled  Gubbins,  "  she  means  she 
is  grateful •" 

Beechy  shook  hands  with  them,  and  after  showing  the 
address  to  the  cabby,  got  into  the  hansom  and  went  her  way. 

The  fog  had  gone  and  the  little  horse  jogged  rapidly 
along  over  the  grassy  street.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  they 
kept  on  their  way,  through  New  Oxford  Street  into  Hoi- 
born,  along  the  Strand,  up  Piccadilly  to  the  Brompton 
Road. 

Miles  and  miles  and  miles  of  shops.  More  shops  than 
she  dreamed  could  be  in  the  whole  world.  Thousands  and 
thousands  of  people,  all  serious,  all  hurrying  to  some  place, 
where,  apparently,  they  did  not  like  to  go. 

The  jog,  jog,  of  the  absurd  little  vehicle  (she  had  chosen 
a  hansom  rather  than  a  four-wheeler  because  the  grotesque- 
ness  of  the  two-wheeled  thing  appealed  to  her  imagination) 
seemed  to  hypnotise  her,  and  after  a  time  the  streets,  end- 
less arid  crowded,  became  to  her  like  a  pantomime,  like  a 


BEECHY   ARRIVES   IN  LONDON         159 

sordid,  unlovely  ballet  danced  to  the  dull  music  of  the 
traffic. 

And  this  was  the  wonderful  London  where  people  were 
so  rich! 

Once  the  hansom  stopped  with  a  jerk  to  let  a  troop  of 
soldiers  march  by,  and  a  woman  with  a  baby  came  and 
begged  of  Beechy,  who  gave  her  a  copper.  A  wretched,  de- 
graded-looking woman  who  smelt  very  evilly  indeed  and 
who  luiched  unevenly  away,  into  the  swinging  doors  of  a 
very  grand-looking  shop  of  some  kind  with  no  shop  win- 
dows. 

Beechy  shivered. 

It  was  a  new  kind  of  poverty  to  her.  In  Rome  there 
were  and  are,  Heaven  knows,  beggars  enough.  But  there 
they  cause  either  pity  or  anger  in  the  minds  of  those  they 
accost,  rarely  if  ever  physical  disgust.  This  drunken  slut, 
child  of  our  vaunted  Anglo-Saxon  civilisation,  filled  the 
little  Italian  with  loathing. 

At  last  the  cab  turned  into  Hartismere  Road,  in  Ful- 
ham,  and  stopped  at  Number  57. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AUNT  AUGUSTA 

NUMBER  57  Hartismere  Road  is  that  enviable  thing 
a  corner  house.     It  is  built   of  brick,  has  a  bow 
window,    and    in    front   of   it   is    a    small    garden 
bisected  by  a  brick  path  edged  with  large  pink-lipped  sea- 
shells  that  spent  their  youth  on  some  southern  white-sanded 
shore. 

On  the  green  front  door  is  a  brass  plate  engraved  with 
the  name  Henry  Pyecraft,  and  the  fanlight  over  the  door  is 
stretched  with  crimson  silk. 

The  cuckoo  clock  in  the  .'dining-room  had  just  struck  two, 
and  the  grandfather  clock  by  the  dining-room  door  in  the 
little  linoleum-covered  hall  was  going  to  strike  two  in  about 
seven  minutes — which  for  the  grandfather  clock  was  not 
doing  badly. 

The  little  house  was  very  quiet;  it  smelt  of  cabbage,  of 
Irish  stew,  of  furniture  polish.  In  the  kitchen  came  a 
very  faint  occasional  sound  as  Amelia  moved  about  cleaning 
up  after  dinner. 

Henry  Pyecraft  himself  sat  by  the  dining-room  fire,  his 
handkerchief  over  his  head,  sleeping,  his  hands  folded  loosely 
over  his  large  round  waistcoat. 

Polly  pecked  occasionally  at  the  bars  of  her  cage,  but 
this  little  soun'd,  like  that  of  Amelia's  movements  in  the 
kitchen,  like  the  smell  of  food  and  varnish,  was  an  in- 
tegral part  of  the  St.  Augustine's  afternoon,  and  did  not 
disturb  the  slumber  of  the  owner  of  the  house. 

1 60 


AUNT    AUGUSTA  161 

Opposite  the  old  brown  rocking-chair  in  which  Mr. 
Pyecraft  sat,  stood  a  low  round  armchair  covered  with 
faded  blue  chintz,  and  on  a  small  table  near  it  stood  a 
work-basket,  a  gilt-edged  book,  and  a  spectacle  case.  Mrs. 
Pyecraft 's  corner  was  now  empty  while  its  owner  took  her 
quotidian  rest  upstairs  in  the  nuptial. 

The  dining-table  still  had  its  white  cover,  and  on  it  stood 
several  piles  of  clean  plates,  two  very  ugly  glass  and  silver 
epergnes  full  of  small  cakes,  and  at  the  end  near  the  window 
stood  a  brand-new  basketwork  cake-stand,  its  little  shelves 
yawning  for  bread  and  butter. 

The  walls  of  the  dining-room  were  of  a  highly  genteel 
dark  blue,  touched  up  with  silver;  they  were  adorned  with 
a  portrait  (done  after  death  from  a  photograph)  of  Mr. 
Pyecraft's  mother,  a  forbidding  oM  woman  with  a  gold 
chain  on  her  stony  bosom;  a  steel  engraving  of  the  signing 
of  the  Reform  Bill,  and  a  highly  coloured  lithograph  of  a 
young  woman  in  a  flying  red  robe  clinging  desperately  to  a 
granite  cross  at  the  feet  of  which  dashed  the  white-crested 
waves  of  a  very  green  and  oily  sea. 

The  mahogany  sideboard  was  heavily  carved,  and  on  it 
stood  a  flowered  soup  tureen,  an  old-fashioned  silver  cake- 
basket  and  two  tall  vases  of  the  hi'deous,  sinister  type  usually 
produced  in  old-fashioned  hotels  for  the  accommodation  of 
unexpected  bouquets.  The  carpet  was  nearly  covered  by  an 
unbleached  drugget. 

A  cab  passing  in  the  street  Polly  gave  vent  to  a  hoarse 
bark,  and  Mr.  Pyecraft  moved  uneasily,  knocking  his  big 
foot  against  the  brass  fender. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock — from  the  passage  came  the  big  soft 
strokes  of  the  clock,  one,  two. 

"  I  think,"  came  from  under  the  red  handkerchief,  "  that 
I'll  'ave  another  go  at  that  clock." 


i6a  BEECHY 

Mr.  Pyecraft  rose  slowly,  stretched  his  arms,  rubbed  his 
genial-looking  red  nose,  and  went  out  into  the  passage, 
leaving  the  door  wide  open  so  that  he  might  have  sufficient 
light. 

He  was  a  very  big  old  man  with  a  bald  head  fringed  with 
stiff  white  hair,  small  grey  eyes  that  twinkled,  and  a  kind, 
humourous  mouth  beneath  which  his  chin  ran  away  towards 
his  neck. 

He  wore  black  clothes  and  across  his  broad  waistcoat 
stretched  a  gold  watch-chain  of  a  very  ornate  description 
indeed. 

On  his  shuffling  feet  he  wore  large  red-plush  slippers 
embroidered  in  purple  pansies. 

"  If,"  Mr.  Pyecraft  said  solemnly,  to  the  clock,  "  you 
could  manage  to  keep  time  with  'er  cuckoo,  you'd  save  me 
an  awful  lot  of  trouble! " 

He  spoke  in  a  hushed  voice,  and  the  clock  paid  no  atten- 
tion whatever  to  him  as  he  thrust  its  big  black  minute  hand 
to  that  place  in  its  face  where  the  cuckoo  insisted  it  ought 
to  be. 

The  old  man  looked  into  the  dining-room  and  gave  a  sort 
of  suppressed  wink  at  the  cuckoo. 

"  Satisfied  now? "  he  asked  that  tyrannical  timepiece. 
Then  he  lumbered  up  the  passage  to  the  door,  just  inside 
which  lay  a  catalogue  in  a  fresh  wrapper. 

"  Button's !" 

As  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  a  pull  at  the  bell  startled 
him  so  that  he  nearly  fell  down,  and  with  a  jerk  he  opened 
the  'door. 

Beechy  looked  at  him. 

"Signer  'Enry  Peecraft?"  asked  the  girl,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  his. 


AUNT  AUGUSTA  163 

And  poor  Pyecraft  knew  by  that  word  "  Signer  "  who 
she  was,  and  that  his  sin  had  found  him  out. 

To  her  amazement  it  appeared  that  the  peculiarities  of 
England  extended  to  the  very  way  the  inhabitants  of  that 
black  country  received  their  guests.  For  Pyecraft,  instead 
of  inviting  her  in,  stepped  out  onto  the  doorstep,  closing  the 
door  softly  after  him. 

"  Beatrice  Cavaleon,"  he  said,  mispronouncing  her  beau- 
tiful name  most  lu'dicrously,  "  poor  Carrie's  girl  ?  " 

Beechy  nodded,  holding  out  both  her  hands  to  him.  He 
took  them  and  bending,  imprinted  a  hasty  kiss  on  her 
cheek. 

So  he  was  friendly,  in  spite  of  the  closed  door.  Beechy, 
tired  and  hungry,  pointed  to  her  mouth  and  chewed  imag- 
inary food.  He  nodded,  still  kindly  but  evidently  in  great 
terror. 

What  could  it  be? 

Ah,  she  knew,  somebody  ill! 

"E  malata  la  Zia  Augusta?"  she  asked,  pointing  to- 
wards the  upper  window. 

"Yes,  yes,  Augusta!  Yes,  my  dear — I  am  delighted  to 

see  you,  but  you  see  I  'aven't  mentioned  you  to  her "  he 

stammered. 

Beechy  after  a  moment's  hesitation  slipped  off  her  shoes 
and  began  prowling  up  and  down  the  brick  walk  with  ex- 
aggerated precautions  of  silence,  one  ringer  on  the  lips. 
"  Zitto,  zitto"  she  whispered  in  a  voice  that  no  one  could 
have  failed  to  understand  to  mean  hush. 

Poor  Pyecraft  watched  her  in  an  agony.  Suppose  Au- 
gusta should*  look  down  out  of  the  window  to  find  him 
watching  a  very  handsome  young  woman  a-doing  pantomime 
in  the  front  garden  in  her  stocking  feet. 


164  BEECHY 

He  shivered.  "Oh,  lor!  w'atever  shall  I  do?"  he 
moaned,  rubbing  his  head  in  the  manner  of  many  perplexed 
old  men.  Beechy  paused  and  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 
Then,  as  he  did  not  move,  she  opened  the  door  softly  and, 
her  fingers  still  on  her  lips,  went  in,  he  following  her  in 
the  guilt  of  despair. 

She  opened  the  door  on  her  left  and  he  followed  her  into 
the  front-parlour.  She  was,  it  seemed  to  him,  a  born 
leader.  How  else  should  she  know  that  this  grand  apart- 
ment was  the  last  place  in  the  house  where  his  wife  would 
look  for  him. 

"  Oh  hello"  exclaimed  the  girl  in  genuine  admiration,  as 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  crimson  and  black  furniture  and  the 
soft  medallioned  carpet. 

"Bel  salone!" 

"  Yes,  it's  a  handsome  room,"  he  agreed,  dully,  but " 

Beechy  sat  down  on  the  plush  sofa.  Then  she  rose  and 
removing  a  small  red  and  white  crochetted  mat  from  a  large 
gilt  book  on  the  marble  centre  table,  opened  the  book. 

"  Ah !  Gesu  Christo,"  she  exclaimed  with  the  eagerness 
of  one  meeting  an  old  friend  in  a  strange  land.  And  she 
crossed  herself  carelessly. 

Pyecraft's  legs  flageolletted  under  him  as  the  French  say, 
and  he  sank  quite  flabbily  and  weak  into  a  chair. 

"To  be  a  naming  of  'im  like  that,  every  day  like,  and 
oh,  my  God,  to  make  a  cross!  It'll  be  the  death  of  Au- 
gusta." 

Beechy,  having  glanced  through  the  Bible,  next  opened 
a  volume  of  Mrs.  Heman's  poems,  and  then  walking  round 
the  room,  submitted  that  proud  apartment  to  a  rapid,  though 
admiring  survey. 

The   drawing-room  suite  seemed  to  her  very;  beautiful 


AUNT  AUGUST  A  165 

indeed,  with  its  stripes  of  hollowed  gilding  in  the  wood  and 
the  silk  plush  of  its  upholstery. 

There  was  also,  on  a  gilt  table  in  the  bow  window,  a 
glass  case  under  which  reposed  three  stuffed  canaries  on  a 
glistening  tropical  tree  with  feathery  foliage.  The  win- 
dows were  draped  in  lace  and  red  cloth  curtains  edged  with 
ball  fringe,  and  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  ornamented  with 
two  blue  vases  fille'd  with  dried  pampas  grass  and  everlasting 
flowers,  stood  a  strange,  ornate  wooden  thing  like  a  piano 
and  yet  mysteriously  not  a  piano!  Like  an  organ  and  yet 
not  an  organ. 

To  this  Beechy  went,  and  laying  her  hand  on  its  lid 
found  that  it  raised. 

It  was  a  piano,  though  above  the  keyboard  was  a  row 
of  pegs  that  she  did  not  understand.  She  could  not  play 
a  note,  but  instinctively  she  touched  the  keys,  and  to  her 
horror  they  were  dumb! 

Her  hand  flew  to  her  throat  as  if  it  had  refused  to  give 
forth  a  sound,  and  in  rapid  Italian  she  asked  Pyecraft 
what  was  the  matter. 

"  Oh,  don't  don't,"  he  moaned,  his  head  in  his  hand. 
For  he  had  heard  in  the  room  above  the  sound  of  a  light 
firm  foot,  and  he  knew  that  Augusta  would  any  moment  be 
coming  down  to  prepare  for  her  tea-party. 

Beechy  tried  the  piano  again,  and  then  deciding  that  it 
was  after  all  an  organ,  examined  the  wall  about  it  for  the 
thing  to  pump  air  into  it.  There  was  nothing! 

To  his  horror  she  lay  down  on  the  floor  and  tried  to 
see  under  the  thing. 

And  it  was  at  this  moment  that  the  'door  opened  and 
Mrs.  Pyecraft  came  in. 

To  his  dying  day  Pyecraft  could  see  the  scene.     Beechy 


i66  BEECHY 

as  flat  as  a  spatchcock  on  the  flowered  floor  peering  under 
the  pedals  of  the  harmonium,  Augusta,  a  silver  epergne  full 
of  cakes  in  each  hand,  staring  at  the  girl.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"'Enry!"  she  said,  and  that  was  all. 

Beechy  scrambled  to  her  knees,  her  hands  still  on  the 
floor,  looked  up  and  smiled.  Then  she  rose,  and  brushing 
her  hands  together,  went  to  Mrs.  Pyecraft  and  before  the 
astonished  woman  could  protest,  had  kissed  her  soundly  on 
both  cheeks. 

"  'Enry !    Who  is  this — this — person  ?  " 

Pyecraft  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  streaming  brow. 

"  It  isn't  a  person,  my  dear,"  he  said,  vacantly,  "  it's 
poor  Carrie's  girl  from  Italy." 

"  Carrie's  girl " 

"  Yes.     She's  an  I-talian — she's  come  from  Italy." 

"  'Old  your  tongue,  'Enry.  And  you,  Miss,"  she  added 
trembling  with  rage,  setting  down  the  epergne  with  a  loud 
bang,  "you  go" 

Beechy,  supposing  her  offence  to  have  consisted  in  lying 
on  the  floor  to  examine  this  unusual  Aunt's  piano-organ- 
thing,  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  "  I'll  never  do  it  again." 

Then  spying  the  cakes  she  went  to  the  table  and  pointing 
to  her  mouth,  rubbed  her  stomach  gently  in  a  way  that 
was  realistic  but  not  at  all  vulgar. 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  gasped,  and  Beechy,  half-starving,  gave 
way  to  temptation  an'd  helped  herself  to  a  large  dark  cake 
that  was  bursting  with  plums. 

"  Don't  be  too  'ard  on  'er,  Augusta,  my — my  love.  She 
is  very  'ungry,  you  see.  And  she  is  Carrie's  girl." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is,  'Enry  Pyecraft?    The  best 


AUNT  AUGUSTA  167 

thing  you  can  do,  I  should  say,  would  be  to  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Poor  Pyecraft  did  not  feel  that  anything  he  could  do 
deserved  the  qualification  of  "  best,"  or  even  "  good."  But 
with  the  eager  docility  of  the  thoroughly  hen-pecked, 
he  confessed. 

"  She  wrote  to  me,  you  see,  my  dear,  'aving  found  some — 
some  letters  I  wrote  to  poor  Carrie  after  her — her  unfor- 
tunate marriage." 

"  Oh !  So  you  wrote  to  her  after  her  marriage,  did 
you?  You  never  mentioned  that  little  fact  before.  Well, 
go  on." 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  was  a  small  thin  woman  with  a  thin  nose 
and  thin  lips.  Everything  about  her,  mentally  as  well  as 
physically,  was  thin. 

Her  hair  was  grey  behind,  and  a  rich  brown  in  front, 
and  her  little  eyes,  like  gimlets,  were  of  a  cold  grey. 

A  very  unpleasant  woman,  Mrs.  Pyecraft,  although  she 
was  for  some  reasons  regarded  by  all  the  "  Connection  "  as 
something  like  a  saint. 

And  of  all  her  qualities  the  one  that  most  terrified  her 
poor,  easy-going  husband  was  a  trick  she  had  of  slowly 
nodding  her  head  as  he  talked  to  her. 

Back  and  forward  it  moved  now  as  he  told  Beechy's  story 
so  that  he  had,  at  one  moment,  a  full  view  of  the  top  of  her 
head,  the  next  of  a  long  yellow  throat.  This  rhythmic 
movement  caught  Beechy's  eye  as  she  munched  her  cake, 
and  the  girl  burst  out  laughing. 

"  She  does  the  mandarin,"  she  cried  joyously  to  herself, 
"like  the  china  mandarin  in  Signora  Scarpia's  salottino!" 

"  Hush,"  pleaded  Pyecraft  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  her, 
"  your  aunt  is  talking." 


168  BEECHY 

"  Her  aunt,  indeed.     I  am  not  her  aunt." 

"  But  you  are,  Augusta.  You  may — we  may  decide 
to  send  her  away,  but  you  can't  change  the  fact  of  your 
being  her  aunt." 

"  Very  good.  I  am  her  aunt  then,"  she  agreed  ominously, 
with  that  sudden  change  of  front  that  makes  women  such 
dangerous  adversaries.  "  I  am  her  aunt.  You  are  not 
her  uncle.  So  I  can  'do  what  I  like  with  my  own  niece. 
And  what  I  like  is  this :  Come,  you " 

Taking  Beechy  by  the  sleeve  she  pulled  her  towards 
the  door. 

If  Mr.  William  Tozer,  butterman,  of  No.  7  Shorrald's 
Road,  had  not  dropped  his  clay  pipe  as  he  left  his  house  that 
afternoon,  Beechy 's  life  would  have  been  very  different 
from  what  it  actually  became. 

By  dropping  his  pipe  and  returning  to  his  room  to  get 
another,  it  so  fell  out  that  Mr.  Tozer  met  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Perkins  and  the  two  men  walked  together  up  Shor- 
rald's Road  to  Hartismere  Road. 

Mr.  Perkins  was  on  his  way  to  make  a  call  at  the  en'd 
of  Hartismere  Road.  If  he  had  not  met  Mr.  Tozer  he 
would  have  gone  there.  But  the  conversation  with  the 
butterman  interested  him,  and  he  turned  to  the  left  at  the 
angle  of  the  two  roads,  and  walked  on  with  him  for  five 
minutes. 

"  Very  well  then,  Mr.  Tozer,  I  will  come,  and  thank 
you  very  much " 

They  parted,  and  Mr.  Perkins,  who  felt  the  fog  in  his 
bones,  hesitated  for  a  moment  at  the  gate  of  St.  Augustine's 
and  then,  well  knowing  that  his  coming  too  early  would 
be  considered  an  honour  by  Mrs.  Pyecraft,  went  briskly 
up  the  brick  path  and  rang  the  bell. 


CHAPTER   XXII 
A  TEA-PARTY  AND  A  HAM  BONE 

MRS.    PYECRAFT'S   hand     relaxed    on    Beechy's 
shoulder   as  the   bell   rang. 
"  See  who  it  is,   'Enry,"  she  said  sharply. 

Beechy  did  not  move.  There  was  to  her  something 
amusing  in  the  scene. 

This  little  black-silk  woman,  whom  she  could  have 
knocked  down  by  a  sudden  movement,  was  so  utterly  mis- 
tress of  the  situation. 

Pyecraft  was  over  a  head  taller  than  his  wife,  yet  there 
he  stood  wordless,  terrified.  Beechy  herself  was  not  ter- 
rified; indeed  it  seemed  to  her  somehow  appropriate  to  the 
general  strangeness  of  inhospital  foggy  Inghilterra  that  her 
mother's  diminutive  shrew  of  a  sister  should  thus  be  march- 
ing her  to  the  door  with  a  view  to  ignominiously  casting 
her  out. 

Pyecraft,  opening  the  door  to  the  extent  of  two  inches 
and  peering  out,  gave  a  sudden  gasp  and  fell  back,  the 
door  still  in  his  hand. 

Stood  revealed,  a  square-built  man  in  black,  with  a 
grizzling  beard  and  the  affable  smile  of  one  accustomed 
to  warm  welcomes  and  ready  cups  of  tea. 

"  Good-afternoon,  my  dear  Mrs.  Pyecraft, — I  come  early, 
but  I  have  been  working  hard  all  day  and  I  am  weary, 
weary.  I  have  come  to  beg  you  to  let  me  rest  in  your 

kind  home  until  our  dear  brothers  and  sisters  arrive " 

169 


170  BEECHY 

Mrs.  Pyecraft,  perforce,  lowered  her  hand  from  Beechy's 
shoulder  and  advanced  towards  her  minister. 

"  Mr.  Perkins,  I  am  delighted,"  she  stammered.  "  'Enry, 
will  you  take  Mr.  Perkins  into  the  dining-room?  " 

Mr.  Perkins  hung  up  his  hat  and  topcoat  on  the  glossy 
brown  hat-rack  at  the  right  of  the  door. 

Then  as  he  was  about  to  follow  poor  Pyecraft,  whose 
agony  of  soul  was  visibly  expressed  in  his  pallid  face, 
Beechy's  good-angel,  at  that  time  in  unfailing  attendance 
on  her,  put  a  sudden  idea  into  the  minister's  mind. 

"And  this  dear  young  lady,"  he  asked,  kindly  turning 
towards  Beechy,  "  another  young  sister  whom  I  have  not 
yet  seen  ?  " 

Pyecraft  drew  up  his  collar  with  a  jerk  and  cleared  his 
throat.  If  he  hesitate'd  now,  Beechy  would  be  put  out 
the  moment  he  had  obeyed  his  wife  and  closed  the  dining- 
room  door.  And,  poor  man,  he  had  loved  pretty  Carrie 
Smith  years  ago.  He  drew  a  quick  breath  and  answered 
before  the  minister's  smile  of  amazement  had  died  from 
his  face. 

"  This  is  a  niece  of  my  dear  wife's,"  he  answered  in  a 
louder  voice  than  usual.  "  She  is  an  I-talian  and  'as  come 
to  visit  us." 

He  pause'd,  but  the  roof  did  not  fall.  Nothing  hap- 
pened. 

Mr.  Perkins  beamed  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Beechy, 
who  created  a  timely  diversion  by  kissing  it.  She  saw 
that  he  was  a  power  in  the  land  and  the  kiss  was  one 
of  propitiation. 

But  the  good  man  blushed  and  coughed  nervously,  and 
Pyecraft  nearly  fainted. 

To  his  wife,  the  minister's  good  opinion  was  worth  more 


A    TEA-PARTY  AND  A   HAM  BONE      171 

than  nearly  anything  in  the  world,  and  here  was  her  niece, 
whom  she  could  no  longer  repudiate,  disgracing  herself 
by  kissing  his  hand! 

"Excuse  her,  Mr.  Perkins,"  she  said,  coughing  behind 
her  own  hand,  "  she  doesn't  speak  a  word  of  English, 
nor  understand  our  ways.  She's  only  just  come." 

The  minister  bowed  graciously.  "  She  will  learn,  Mrs. 
Pyecraft,  she  will  learn  from  you"  he  said  graciously. 
"  And  now,  Mr.  Pyecraft,  if  you  will  let  me  rest  by  the 
fire- 
Thus  Mrs.  Pyecraft  and  Beechy  were  left  alone.  For 
several  seconds  there  was  a  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Pyecraft 
said  with  a  snap:  "Is  that  your  box?" 

She   pointed    as   she   spoke.     Beechy   nodded. 

"Amelia!" 

There  was  another  pause  during  which  a  strange  muffled 
bird-call  reached  them.  Beechy  laughed  aloud,  then,  purs- 
ing her  lips,  reproduced  with  extraordinary  fidelity  the 
sound  of  her  aunt's  favourite  clock. 

"  Whatever "  began  Amelia,  the  cook-general,  ap- 
pearing at  the  kitchen  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  passage. 
"  You  'aven't  moved  the  cuckoo-clock  ?  " 

Beechy  seeing  her  surprise,  gave  the  call  again,  and 
Amelia  burst  out  laughing. 

"  This  is — my  niece,  Amelia,"  said  Mrs.  Pyecraft.  "  'Elp 
'er  carry  'er  box  upstairs,  will  you  ?  " 

But   Amelia  had   not  bargained   for   nieces. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  'ad  nieces,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  have." 

Amelia  was  large  and  her  red,  glossy-elbowed  arms  were 
muscular.  But  the  muscle  in  Mrs.  Pyecraft's  little  pale 
tongue  outmatched  her. 


172  BEECHY 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  took  up  her  end  of  the 
box,  Beechy  took  up  the  other,  and  the  two  tramped  up 
two  flights  of  narrow  stairs  to  a  small  room  under  the 
roof. 

"  You've  come,  and  I  'ope  you'll  like  it,"  said  the  cook- 
general  venomously,  "  but  you'll  'ave  to  do  your  own  work. 
7  ain't  agoin'  to  work  for  you." 

Beechy  looked  at  her  and  then,  very  quietly,  swore  at 
her  in  fluent  Roman  street  language. 

Amelia  stared.  "  Well,  I  never.  Whatever's  that  you're 
talking?"  she  said. 

Beechy  swore  on,  using  words  and  phrases  of  which 
she  had  not  thought  since  her  gamin  days. 

At   last   Amelia    fled   in   confusion. 

The  room  was  small,  and  very  shabby,  more  a  box  room 
than  a  bedroom. 

There  was  a  bed,  but  there  were  also  several  trunks  and 
boxes  in  the  far  end  of  it,  and  there  was  no  cupboard  of 
any  kind,  nor  any  looking-glass.  A  dreadful  room  it 
would  have  seemed  to  anyone  in  the  least  fastidious,  but  to 
Beechy  it  was  a  room,  it  contained  a  bed,  and  that  was 
all  that  was  necessary. 

She  sat  down  by  the  window,  her  back  to  it  and  reviewed 
the  position  in  which  she  found  herself. 

Her  aunt  disliked  her  for  some  reason.  Her  aunt  was 
a  devil,  so  that  did  not  matter. 

Signer  Pyecraft  was  kind.  He  was  a  good  old  man, 
but  evidently  quite  a  secondary  personage  in  the  house- 
hold. 

"  He  is  a  wet  hen,"  she  said. 

The  servant  did  not  like  her,  but  the  servant  was  obvi- 
ously an  animal. 


'A   TEA-PARTY  AND  A  HAM  BONE      173 

At  least  there  was  a  roof  over  her,  and  a  bed  for  her 
to  sleep  in. 

"  They  will  have  to  give  me  food,  too,"  she  reckoned 
shrewdly,  "  if  the  Old  Bearded  One  stays.  She  fears  the 
Old  Bearded  One." 

The  little  low  window  was  shrouded  by  a  grey  cotton 
curtain  hung  on  a  rusty  wire.  Beechy  threw  back  the 
curtain,  and  then  drew  a  long  breath. 

For  before  her  spread  the  panorama  of  chimney-pots 
that  has  for  some  people  so  much  of  a  strange  poetry  of 
its  own.  Before  her  and  on  all  sides  chimneys,  smoking 
and  silent.  Brick  chimneys,  and  iron  ones.  Miles  of 
them,  a  vast  plateau  of  slate  and  iron  and  brick,  and 
little  odd  windows  trying  to  blink  in  a  pale  little  sun- 
beam that  was  trying  to  force  its  way  through  the  heavy 
air. 

Nearly  opposite  Beechy  a  row  of  geraniums  glowed, 
growing  in  tins.  Strings  of  faded,  shabby  clothes  hung 
out  to  dry  here  and  there,  a  grey  cat  minced  daintily  along 
over  the  tiles  away  to  the  left. 

Beechy  was  used  to  roofs,  but  in  Rome  no  two  houses 
are  of  the  same  level  and  there  are  no  iron  chimney-pots. 
In  Rome  roof-landscape  is  one  of  mountains  and  valleys,  of 
precipitous  walls,  of  beautiful  garlanded  windows,  of  splen- 
did domes  and  towers  whose  bells  boom  across  the  silence, 
of  fluted  russet  tiles,  of  sudden  bits  of  garden,  whose  vel- 
vety cypresses  prick  the  sky. 

It  is  romantic,  beautiful,  and  Beechy  loved  it.  But  this 
London — here  roofs  were  ugly,  sordid,  piteous,  they  were 
flat,  uniform,  'dirty,  and  yet  they  had  a  strange  and  potent 
charm  not  unlike  the  charm  of  a  vast  plain. 

As  Beechy  watched,  an  old  woman  came  and  watered 


174  BEECHY 

the  geraniums  out  of  a  broken  teapot,  and  then  moved  them 
all  to  the  inside  of  the  window.  A  white  cat  ran  out  of  a 
dark  place  behind  a  cluster  of  rusty  chimneys;  a  child's  voice, 
screaming  loudly,  rent  the  air. 

It  was  life;  the  life  of  the  roofs,  and  Beechy  drew  a 
deep  breath,  for  she  felt  its  charm  and  loved  it. 

"  Well — I  suppose  you  might  as  well  come  down " 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  stood  beside  her.  "  Oh,  you  'aven't  un- 
packed. Well "  Beechy  smiled  at  her. 

A  moment  later  and  she  had  opened  her  box.  Mrs. 
Pyecraft  very  ungraciously  pulled  out  Beechy's  best  frock, 
a  dark  red  woollen  thing,  and,  in  dumb  show,  ordered  her 
to  put  it  on. 

After  a  hasty  wash  in  cold  water  the  girl  smoothed  her 
hair  and  obeyed,  after  which  she  followed  her  ungentle 
relation  downstairs. 

Mr.  Perkins  was  now  installed  in  the  front  parlour 
and  to  Pyecraft's  relief  another  guest  had  arrived. 

This  was  Mrs.  Batter,  a  wealthy  widow,  a  person  of 
vast  importance  in  the  Connection. 

"Ah,  and  here  is  our  dear  young  sister — what  did  you 
say  her  name  was?"  broke  off  Mr.  Perkins  as  Beechy 
came  in. 

"  Beatrice.  Beatrice  Cavaleon,"  answered  Pyecraft, 
hastily,  but  Beechy  smiled  and  corrected  him,  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "  Be-a-tri-ce  Ca-va-le-o-ne,"  she  pronounced 
syllabically,  in  her  pretty  soft  voice. 

"A  German,  I  daresay,"  commented  Mrs.  Batter  with 
a  much-travelled  air. 

"  I-talian.  She's  only  just  arrived.  Come  for  a  visit," 
elucidated  Mrs.  Pyecraft — "  a  very  short  visit." 

Other  guests  arrived:  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lacy,  a  kind  pair 


A   TEA-PARTY  AND  A  HAM  BONE      175 

who  went  in  for  pigeon-fancying,  and  whose  only  son  was 
working  in  China  as  a  missionary;  Mrs.  Clapp  and  her 
two  daughters,  serious-minded  young  women  with  weak 
eyes;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Little,  the  successors  to  Mr.  Pyecraft's 
drapery-business,  very  old  friends  of  the  Pyecrafts. 

They  sat  down  and  ate. 

Beechy,  who  was  bidden  to  hand  round  the  cake,  did 
so  in  a  fury  of  thwarted  hunger.  There  was  tea  and  Mr. 
Perkins  himself  offered  her  a  cup,  but  she  remembered  her 
experience  of  the  morning  and  refused. 

She  ate  two  slices  of  bread  and  butter,  but  her  aunt's 
repellent  eye  stopped  her  as  she  was  about  to  take  more, 
and  hunger  tore  at  her  vitals. 

More  guests.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chubb,  a  bride  and  groom, 
she  very  elegant  in  new  clothes,  an  ermine  tippet  made  of 
cat  round  her  neck,  a  gold  watch  suspended  in  the  middle 
of  her  chest. 

Mr.  Chubb  was  the  wit  of  the  congregation  and  his 
most  serious  observation  was  met  with  laughter.  The  fact 
that  Beechy  spoke  no  English  so  amused  him  that  he  nearly 
split  with  laughter,  to  use  his  own  favourite  phrase. 

"  No  English !  Then  what  does  she  speak  ?  "  he  asked. 
Then  approaching  the  girl  who  stood  looking  at  him,  won- 
dering if  he  were  half-witted,  he  said :  "  Let's  try  her  in 
Chinese.  Mick-Mack-mee,  Keechy-weechy." 

Everybody  was  delighted  and  laughed  heartily,  while 
Mrs.  Chubb  suppressed  her  pride  as  best  she  could. 

Beechy,  flushing  crimson,  moved  back  a  few  steps,  look- 
ing at  the  buffoon  with  brilliantly  visible  disdain.  "  Im- 
becile," she  said. 

The  party  was  a  great  success. 

Even  Mr.  Porter,  the  eccentric  Mr.  Porter,  who  lived 


176  BEECHY 

at  The  Willows  and  kept  two  servants,  appeared  at  about 
six  o'clock,  and  he  ate  several  cakes  and  drank  more  tea 
than  anyone  except  Mr.  Perkins,  whose  prowess  in  that 
direction  was  renowned,  and  a  favourite  subject  of  tender- 
est  chaff  by  his  more  intimate  lady-friends. 

At  last  the  last  guest  had  gone,  accompanied  to  the  door 
by  both  host  and  hostess. 

"  Well,"  began  Mr.  Pyecraft  with  a  sigh  of  content,  "  I 
call  that  a  very  pleasant  party." 

"  Never  was  a  nicer  one,  my  dear.  Mr.  Perkins  'ad 
six  cups  and  Mr.  Porter  four  an'd  a  half.  Them  little 
round  cakes  are " 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  interrupted  him.  "Where's  that  girl?" 
she  asked  in  the  tone  she  would  have  used  if  asking  where 
is  that  boa-constrictor? 

Beechy  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  No,  Amelia  had  not 
seen  her.  Amelia  had  been  in  the  dining-room,  working. 

After  a  short  search  Beechy  was  found  in  her  own  room. 
By  her,  on  a  table  stood  a  plate  containing  bread-crumbs 
and,  oh  horror,  a  ham  bone  denuded  of  its  last  shred  of 
meat. 

And  by  the  plate  a  little  pile  of  money,  at  which  the 
girl  gravely  pointed,  after  in'dicating  with  a  dramatic  wave 
of  her  hand,  the  ham  bone. 

"  She  'as  eaten  the  'am  we  were  to  'ave  'ad  for  sup- 
per  "  gasped  her  aunt. 

"  Poor  child — look — she  wants  us  to  take  money  for  it! 
No,  no,  my  dear,  an'  you're  welcome  to  the  'am,"  he 
added  hastily,  pushing  the  money  away. 

"  I  dessay  she  was  'ungry,"  supplemented  his  wife,  a 
trifle  ashamed  of  herself.  "A  nice  kettle  of  fish  you've 
got  us  into,  'Enry  Pyecraft  I " 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
ABOUT  AURELIO 

IT  is  well  known   that   Cavaleone   never  spoke   really 
good    English.     Her   marvellous   memory,   of   course, 
contributed  to  her  having  an  excellent  and  extensive 
vocabulary,  but  her  musical  ear  was  from  the  first  at  fault 
when  applied  to  the  mastery  of  the  pronunciation  of  the 
language.     French  she  acquired  easily,  and  a  fair  amount 
of  German,  but  she  could  never  learn  to  end  words  quite 
clearly  with  a  consonant,  and  "  th  "  was  always  an  insur- 
mountable barrier  to  her. 

That  her  h's  were  always  unsteady  she  owed,  of  course, 
largely  to  the  fact  that  her  first  years  in  England  were 
passed  among  the  excellent  people  of  Hartismere  Road. 

For,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Pyecraft's  objections,  she  stayed 
on  at  St.  Augustine's. 

One  spring  day,  some  two  years  after  her  arrival  at  that 
house,  she  was  sitting  with  her  aunt  in  the  back  garden. 
Their  chairs  and  a  small  table  stood  on  a  square  of  old 
carpet  under  a  very  dingy  plane  tree  whose  shabby 
branches,  as  if  ashamed  of  their  poverty-stricken  aspect, 
were  hurrying  to  clothe  themselves  in  a  new  green  garment. 

The  little  garden  was  a  pleasant  place  enough,  and  Uncle 
'Enry's  cheery  whistling  as  he  bent  over  his  beloved  cu- 
cumber frame,  sounded  very  pleasant  to  Beechy. 

"But  why  you  keep  me  then?"  she  asked,  glancing  up 
from  her  work,  a  brown  sock  which  she  was  darning. 

177 


iy8  BEECHY 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  "  returned  her  aunt.  "  There  was 
your  uncle  telling  Mr.  Perkins  who  you  were — there  was 
nothing  else  for  it." 

Beechy  nodded,  sympathetically  rather  than  otherwise, 
and  allowed  her  eyes  to  rest  for  a  moment  on  the  delicious 
rosy  snow  of  an  apple-tree  growing  in  the  next  garden. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  no  like — a " 

"  Who'd  a-liked  it  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  But  there — 
you  stayed,  and  when  you  behave  yourself  and  don't  do 
awful  things  I  reely  don't  mind  you  much."  Mrs.  Pye- 
craft  spoke,  for  her,  rather  graciously. 

"They're  coming  on,  'Gusta,"  shouted  Mr.  Pyecraft, 
standing  up  and  rubbing  his  aching  back.  "  The  cukes,  I 
mean.  This  sun  is  just  what  they  wanted " 

He  loved  his  garden,  the  good  man,  and  that  very  after- 
noon had  unbound  the  straw  that  had  protected  his  rhu- 
barb roots  from  the  long  winter  frosts. 

There  were  herbaceous  borders  round  the  little  enclosure, 
and  lettuce  also  "  coming  on "  under  the  kitchen  win- 
'dows.  Beechy's  patch  of  violets  were  doing  well  and  their 
glossy  green  leaves  already  hid  several  buds. 

Overhead  the  sky  was  as  blue  and  clear  as  if  it  had  never 
heard  of  smoke  and  fog. 

Beechy  squared  her  mouth  and  gave  several  little  snort- 
ing cries  up  and  down  the  scale. 

"  Voice  all  right,"  she  said,  contentedly.  "  I  was  afraid 
last  night  I  was  going  to  have  cold.  Aurelio  would 
walk." 

"H'ml" 

"Why  you  say  h'mt  aunt?  Because  Aurelio  would 
walk?" 

The  sun  shone  full  in  her  lustrous  eyes  as  she  looked 


ABOUT  AURELIO  179 

at  the  old  woman,  giving  to  her  a  peculiarly  innocent 
look. 

"  You  are  treating  Aurelio  very  badly,  Beechy." 

"  Bah !  Aurelio  understands  me.  You  remember,  aunt, 
that  first  night  when  he  came?  Without  Aurelio  I  died, 
then." 

"  I  certainly  do  remember  that  evening,  and  'ow  badly 
you  behaved.  A  big  girl  like  you  to  kiss  'im  like  that." 

"  But — I  was  so  glad  to  see  'im — an  Italian !  To  hear 
Italian  spoken,  to  speak  with  'im!  Of  course  I  kiss  'im!  " 

" H-ml  'Enry,  I  wish  you'd  leave  that  tiresome  cu- 
cumber frame  and  come  to  talk  to  me — or  rather  to 
Beechy." 

Henry  obeyed,  as  usual,  at  once,  and  stood  before  her 
an  humble,  earthy,  shirt-sleeved  old  man. 

"  I'm  telling  'er  that  she  'adn't  ought  to  carry  on  so 
with  Aurelio,  'Enry.  And  she  won't  listen  to  me  at  all. 
She  never  will." 

"  But  aunt,  I  always  listen,"  proteste'd  Beechy,  looking 
more  injured  than  she  could  possibly  have  felt. 

"  'E  meets  'er  every  day  after  'er  lesson  and  brings  'er 
'ome." 

"Bringing  'er  fome  isn't  wrong,  Augusta!" 

"Yesterday  they  went  to  the  Pop  for  tea.  And  to- 
night they  are  going  to  the  opera." 

"  To  'ear  the  new  tenor  in  Romeo,"  put  in  Beechy. 
"Think  of  it,  Uncle  'Enry!" 

Old  Pyecraft  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully. 

"You  know,  my  dear,"  he  ventured  to  his  wife,  "that 
/  don't  'old  by  opera  goin'!  And  you  know  that  I  did 
my  best  to  persuade  'er  to  give  up  singing  and  take  up  the 
dressmaking.  But — I  failed,  as  even  you  and  Mr.  Per- 


i8o  BEECHY 

kins  did.  And  there — well,  we — we  gave  in,  didn't  we, 
my  love?" 

Beechy  watched  her  old  champion  lovingly,  and  gave  a 
little  jump  as  her  aunt  declared  firmly: 

"I  never  gave  in,  never.  To  see  my  own  flesh  and 
blood  a-going  to  perdition  is — is  not  pleasant  for  me,  'Enry, 
and  consent  I  do  not  nor  will  not.  But  Aurelio  answered 
for  Seenior  Bucini  knowing  'is  wife  and  all,  so  I  can 
bear  the  lessons.  It's  this  opera  goin'  that  I  object  to. 
And  with  Aurelio,  too !  " 

Beechy  tossed  her  pair  of  socks  into  the  basket  and  took 
up  a  long  stocking. 

"You  would  not  want  me  to  go  alone?"  she  asked, 
making  a  face  at  the  damages  she  had  to  repair  as  she 
drew  the  stocking  over  her  hand. 

"/  don't  care  about  going  with  Aurelio!  I'll  take 
Annie  instead,  if  she'll  swear  not  to  eat  during  the  singing." 

"  My  dear,  surely  it  is  better  to  'ave  Aurelio  take  'er? 
Young  women — Annie's  still  young — ought  not  to  go  alone 
to  a  theatre.  And  Aurelio " 

"Aurelio  is  over  'is  ears  in  love  with  'er,  'Enry  Pye- 
craft,  you  silly  old  bat,  and  there  you  'ave  the  truth,"  she 
flashed  out,  furiously. 

Beechy  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Poor  Aurelio — si,  £ 
vero,  'e  loves  me.  And — why  not?  Besides,  it  is  not  new. 
Ever  since  that  Sunday  'e  loves  me." 

She  made  this  statement  quite  unemotionally,  and  there 
was  a  short  pause,  for  that  Sunday  was  a  day  dreadful 
in  the  annals  of  St.  Augustine's. 

It  was  the  occasion  of  Beechy's  first  appearance  at  chapel, 
a  dull  Sunday,  a  fortnight  after  her  precipitous  arrival  in 
Hartismere  Road. 


ABOUT  AURELIO  181 

Clad  in  a  hideous  brown  frock,  chosen  by  Mrs.  Pye- 
craft,  the  girl  sat  quietly  enough  in  her  place,  watching 
the  members  of  the  congregation,  the  bare  walls,  the  wooden 
rostrum. 

Mr.  Perkins  prayed,  and  Beechy  counted  the  heads  in 
front  of  her. 

This  was  a  strange  place  in  which  to  pray.  No  pictures, 
no  statues,  not  even  a  crucifix. 

In  place  of  a  beautiful  altar,  an  ugly  table;  instead  of 
a  gorgeous,  solemn-voiced  priest,  Mr.  Perkins. 

Beechy  said  an  Ave  and  two  Paters. 

Then  a  cracked  harmonium  began  to  wheeze  out  a  hymn, 
and  the  brothers  and  sisters  to  sing. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  cook-general  at  St.  Augus- 
tine's was  a  songstress,  and  that  this  hymn,  "  There  is  a 
Fountain  Filled  With  Blood,"  was  her  favourite.  So 
Beechy,  who  had  heard  it  sung  loudly  every  day  during  the 
past  fortnight,  knew  the  tune  perfectly. 

Straightening  her  back  she  drew  a  long  breath  and 
joined  in  the  singing. 

Of  course  she  did  not  know  the  words,  but  she  knew 
an  Italian  ballad  (anything  but  hymn-like  in  sentiment), 
the  rhythm  of  which  fitted  to  the  music  of  the  hymn. 

At  first  she  sang  unnoticed,  but  after  the  first  few  bars 
her  voice  rose  and  soared. 

"  There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood 
Drawn   from   Emanuel's  veins — " 

The  brothers  and  sisters  paused,  the  five  gifted  ones 
who,  sitting  by  the  harmonium  composed  the  choir,  con- 
tinued doughtily  for  a  moment  and  then  severally  straggled 
into  silence. 


i8a  BEECHY 

" '  And  those  who  plunged  within  that  flood,' " 

sang  Beechy,  her  beautiful  young  voice  filling  the  dingy 
place  as  irreverently  as  that  of  a  nightingale  would  have 
done,  her  Italian  words  melodious  and  human. 

"  '  Lose  all  their  guilty  stains.' " 

The  organist,  who  afterwards  pleaded  a  kind  of  maiming 
hypnotism  as  her  excuse  for  not  stopping,  played  on  and 
Beechy  continued,  gaining  confidence  with  every  note,  her 
voice  acquiring  timbre  and  fulness. 

Even  Mrs.  Pyecraft  could  not  make  a  move  towards 
stopping  her  until  she  was  half  way  through  the  second 
stanza. 

Then,  right  in  the  middle  of  a  wonderful  clear  high 
note,  Mrs.  Pyecraft  clutched  the  singer  and  gave  her  a 
violent  jerk. 

"  Stop,  you  wicked  girl,"  she  gasped.  "  Stop  at  once. 
You  are  shaming  us  all " 

Beechy  shook  her  away,  in  amazement,  but  then,  as 
she  saw  the  faces  of  the  congregation,  and  even  Mr. 
Perkins,  as  they  waked  up  to  the  enormity  of  her  offence, 
she  faltered  and  stopped,  her  voice  ceasing  like  a  dying 
voice. 

Mr.  Pyecraft  was  white  with  horror,  but  to  her  relief 
the  restored  organist  again  began  to  play,  and  the  stricken 
people  to  sing. 

Beechy  stepped  over  her  uncle  and  went  out  into  the 
dull  daylight. 

At  the  door,  just  as  Mrs.  Pyecraft  reached  her,  stood  a 
young  man. 

"Who  sang  'Stella  del  cuor  mio'?"  he  asked  abruptly, 


ABOUT  AURELIO  183 

and  Beechy,  with  a  sound  between  a  sob  and  a  laugh, 
pointed  to  herself. 

"lo!"  she  said. 

"  Excuse  me,  madame,"  the  youth  went  on,  to  the  old 
woman,  "  but,  to  be  passing  a  chapel  in  Fulham,  and 
to  hear  an  Italian  poem  sung  to  a  hymn — I — it  was 
strange." 

"  Very  strange,  indeed.  And  very  disgraceful,"  returned 
Mrs.  Pyecraft.  "  Come,  Beechy." 

But  Beechy  clasped  her  hands. 

"  I  live  at  57  Hartismere  Road,"  she  said,  pleadingly  in 
Italian,  "  you  must  come  and  see  me.  I  die  in  this  awful 
country — I  die " 

"  She  asks  me  to  come  to  see  her,"  explained  the  young 
man  with  instantaneous  tact,  "  because  she  cannot  speak 
English.  My  name,  madame,  is  Aurelio  Ruffo,  and  I  am 
a  goldsmith.  I  work  at  Leffingwell's,  in  the  Racton  Road, 
if  you  will  kindly  make  inquiries.  Possibly,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  call  on  you,  I  may  be  able  to  be  of  assistance 
to  you." 

Mrs.  Pyecraft,  indignant  though  she  was  with  Beechy, 
yet  saw  that  the  civil  young  man  was  right.  He  might 
indeed  be  of  use. 

So  very  sourly  she  told  him  that  her  husband  would 
come  to  see  Mr.  Leffingwell. 

Then  they  parted,  and  Beechy  did  not  in  the  least  mind 
the  steady  flow  of  invective  that  was  directed  at  her  on 
their  homeward  way.  For,  thanks  be  to  the  Madonna,  a 
Christian  was  coming  to  see  her! 

This,  in  brief,  is  the  history  of  the  day  known  to  them 
always  as  That  Sunday. 

They  all  thought  of  it  that  other  day,  two  years  later, 


184  BEECHY 

when  Mrs.  Pyecraft  appealed  to  her  husband  against  the 
opera  going. 

"  So  you  know  he  is  in  love  with  you !  " 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  was  sincerely  shocked  by  this  daring 
avowal. 

Beechy  laughed.  "Yes.  He  tells  me  he  does  often- 
enough!  Dear  old  Aurelio,  and  I  love  him,  too,"  she 
added,  patting  the  darn  she  had  just  finished. 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  gave  a  little  snort.  "  Well !  So  you 
love  him  too,  do  you,  Miss?  'Enry,  do  you  hear  that?  " 

Mr.  Pyecraft,  with  a  sidelong  look  of  warning  at  Beechy, 
nodded. 

"  I  do,  my  dear.  She  means  like  a  friend,  Augusta, 
don't  you,  Beechy?  There's  different  ways  of  loving — 
lots  of  'em." 

It  is  an  odd  fact  that  the  drie'd  up  old  woman  was,  in 
spite  of  their  long  life  together,  absolutely  untroubled  by 
any  other  woman,  very  jealous  of  her  husband. 

Beechy  looked  at  them  wonderingly.  Jealousy  as  a 
quality  she  understood  very  well,  being  an  Italian.  She 
herself  had  been  jealous  of  Aurelio  Roffo's  friendship  for 
a  pretty  Scotch  girl  who  kept  Leffingwell's  books,  but  that 
her  Uncle  'Enry  could  awaken  the  sentiment  never  failed, 
when  the  fact  was  brought  to  her  notice,  to  amuse  her. 

Old  Pyecraft,  fat,  stooping,  bald,  his  respectable  and  tee- 
total nose  very  red,  his  embroidered  braces  pulling  his 
trousers  well  up  above  his  waist — it  was  to  the  girl's  min'd 
absurd. 

The  old  man,  however,  moved  his  gouty  feet  nervously. 

"  Friendship,"  he  murmured,  "  friendship  is  very  differ- 
ent from  what  a  man  feels,  h'm! — for  his  wife.  That's 
what  I  meant,  my  dear." 


ABOUT  AVRELIO  185 

"  That,"  returned  Mrs.  Pyecraft,  moodily,  "  is  what  you 
say.  Trouble  will  come,  'Enry,  I  suppose,  although  we 
are  old  now.  You  remember  what  I  says  to  you  the  third 
time  you  asked  me — and  I  told  you  about  'Ector 
Adams " 

"  I  know,  I  know " 

At  that  moment  Annie,  the  sixth  cook-general  who  had 
come  to  No.  57  since  Beechy's  arrival,  appeared  in  the 
kitchen  window  and  asked  her  mistress  if  she  would  mind 
stepping  in  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Pyecraft  stepped. 

"Uncle  'Enry,"  said  Beechy,  "what  is  it  about  letter 
A?" 

"'Ush,  my  dear,  'ushf" 

The  old  man  glanced  nervously  after  his  wife. 

"  But — you  said  you'd  tell  me." 

Ever  since  her  first  day  at  St.  Augustine's  Beechy  had 
felt  a  sinister  influence  in  the  atmosphere  there.  A  mys- 
terious something  referring  to  her  aunt's  fate  and  to  the 
first  letter  of  the  alphabet. 

Once  or  twice  she  had  asked  Mrs.  Pyecraft,  but  in- 
formation had  been  denied  her  almost  violently,  and  now 
the  reference  to  a  Mr.  Adams  had  put  it  into  her  mind 
again. 

Pyecraft  sat  down  in  his  wife's  chair. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Beechy,  it's  just  this,  only  mind  you 
never  let  'er  guess  you  know.  She  was  born,  your  Augusta, 
in  Acton,  in  April,  her  father's  name  was  Arthur  and  'er 
mother's  Annie.  When  she  was  twenty  she  went  to  visit 
a  friend  named  Ashby  who  lived  in  Alnwick,  and  there 
she  met  a  young  man  named  'Ector  Adams.  They  were 
engaged." 


186  BEECHY 

Beechy  had  stopped  working  and  watched  him  with  the 
deepest  interest.  She  was  far  too  Italian  not  to  be  super- 
stitious and  the  simple  fatefulness  of  the  story  impressed 
her. 

"  Well,  Adams,"  pursued  Uncle  Pyecraft,  "  'e  died.  She 
was  awful  cut  up  about  it.  It  was  very  queer,  Beechy. 
The  next  year  she  began  'aving  the  asthmy,  too.  Oh, 
there's  lots  of  things.  Asparrowgus,  for  instance,  she  can't 
abide,  and  I've  got  the  gout,  which  the  real  name  for  it  is 
h'arthritis.  When  I  married  'er  she  didn't  much  care  to 
'ave  me,  my  name  being  'Enry  Pyecraft — no  a's  you  see — 
but  we  named  the  baby  'Arriet, — and  she  died  when  she 
was  two.  She  didn't  half  like  this  road  beginning  with  a 
haitch,  but  I  told  'er  an  haitch  is  next  best  to  a  h'a.  And — 
oh  well,  it's  very  strange,  Beechy,  ve-ry  strange.  And 
then  your  being  an  actress,  and  always  a-talking  about  ar- 
tists  " 

Beechy  nodded  gravely.  "Yes,  it  is  strange.  All  good 
things  and  all  bad  things  "  (she  said  '  tings  ')  "  begin  with  a 
h'a.  Anch  io  son  superstiziosa."  As  she  avowed  her 
own  superstitions  she  instinctively  touched  a  little  bunch 
of  charms  she  wore  on  a  silver  bangle.  There  was  a  tiny 
coral  hand  with  the  middle  finger  curled  in,  the  index  and 
the  little  finger  almost  meeting  across  them;  a  little  tiny 
gold  medal  of  St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  a  bog-oak  pig  that 
Aurelio  had  brought  to  her  after  a  trip  to  the  Irish  Lakes, 
and  various  other  trifles. 

"  I  left  it  home  last  week  when  I  went  to  my  lesson, 
an'd  could  not  sing  a  little  bit.  Very  bad,  Maestro  very 
cross.  But,  Uncle  'Enry,"  she  began  in  a  low  voice,  as 
Mrs.  Pyecraft  came  towards  them,  "  the  opera  is  '  A'ida,' 
tell  her.  Now  I'll  go  and  practise,  aunt." 


ABOUT  AVRELIO  187 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Pyecraft  sat  with  invisible 
lips  as  the  sounds  of  the  girl's  voice,  firm  and  clear  in  its 
roulades  and  sustained  notes,  came  down  through  her  care- 
fully closed  window. 

"It's  a  beautiful  voice,  Augusta,  ain't  it  now?"  the  old 
man  ventured,  anxiously. 

"  I  suppose  it  is,  as  you  all  say  so,  but  it's  too  loud  for 
my  taste.  And  remember,  'Enry,  the  minute  she  is  on  the 
stage  she  leaves  my  'ouse." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear." 

Somehow,  as  time  passed  they  had  learned  to  forget 
that  Beechy  was  Mrs.  Pyecraft's  niece.  It  seemed  to  the 
old  man  that  she  was  his,  and  his  attitude  towards  his 
wife  was  one  of  gratitude  for  her  kindness  to  an  inter- 
loper introduced  by  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
BUCINI 

IF  the  Reverend  Mr.  Perkins  had  not  appeared  just 
when  he  did  that  November  afternoon  Beechy  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  sent  away.  Mrs.  Pyecraft  had 
never  forgiven  her  sister  several  things,  not  only  her  becom- 
ing a  Catholic.  Carrie  had  been  pretty  and  light-hearted, 
and  had  been  the  one  pleasant  nature  in  a  dull,  depressed 
family,  and  as  such  she  was  unpopular  at  home. 

Then  a  Mrs.  Arbuthnot,  who  lived  near  Acton,  met  the 
younger  sister,  took  a  fancy  to  her  and  used  to  invite  her  to 
her  house. 

The  young  girl  here  met  amusing  people  of  a  better 
class  than  her  own  family,  she  learned  to  curl  her  ha.lt,  to 
pinch  her  waist,  to  look  through  her  eyelashes,  to  sing  little 
songs  about  farewells,  and  roses  and  broken  hearts. 

All  these  things  Augusta,  grim-visaged  even  then,  bit- 
terly resented.  The  sisters  quarrelled,  and  Mrs.  Arbuth- 
not took  Carrie  to  Torquay. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  was  a  vain,  under-educated  woman,  not  at 
all  a  good  friend  for  silly  little  Carrie  Smith,  but  she  was 
kind  and  cheery,  and  enjoyed  life,  so  Carrie  willingly  went 
abroad  with  her  one  February. 

In  Rome  they  quarrelled,  and  poor  Carrie  was  suddenly 
thrown  on  her  own  resources. 

Like  most  English  girls  of  that  period  she  believed  her 

1 88 


BUCINI  189 

ignorant,  undisciplined  self  to  be  perfectly  adapted  to  edu- 
cate children,  and  through  a  series  of  chances  she  presently 
found  herself  installed  as  nursery  governess  to  the  children 
of  Princess  Lilly  del  Grillo.  She  was  more  or  less  the 
slave  of  Mademoiselle  Grenier,  the  governess,  but  the  chil- 
dren were  charming,  she  had  food  enough  and  a  dignified, 
princely  roof  over  her  head,  so  she  was  not  unhappy. 

One  day  in  May,  when  lilacs  and  roses  filled  the  garden, 
she  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  dilapidated  old  fountain 
sketching  with  the  impertinence  of  her  type,  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's  among  the  roofs  in  the  plain  below,  when  the 
children's  voices  were  heard  calling  "  Uncle  Giulio,  Uncle 
Giulio!" 

The  little  governess,  the  sun  in  her  fair  hair,  looked  up, 
and  saw  Giulio  Cavaleone  approaching  her;  splendid  in 
the  gaudy  riding  costume  of  the  smart  Roman  youth  of  his 
day  and  type. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  politely  in  Italian,  "  I 
thought  the  children  were  alone." 

"  They — they  are"  she  stammered,  "  I  am  only — the 
under-governess." 

She  was  twenty,  he  was  twenty-two.  They  were  both 
good-looking,  neither  was  in  love  with  any  one  else,  the 
month  was  May,  in  Rome. 

The  only  strange  part  of  it  was  that  he  marrie'd  her. 
But  he  did,  perhaps,  trusting  that  his  new  position  as  a  mar- 
ried man  would  cause  the  old  prince,  his  father's  cousin,  to 
relent  in  his  attitude  towards  certain  long-outstanding  debts. 

This  part  of  the  plan  failed ;  there  was  a  sale,  a  scandal, 
and  the  penniless  couple  lived  for  a  time  in  absolute  retire- 
ment, no  one  knew,  or  cared,  where. 

Cavaleone  at  last  got  a  very  small  position  as  clerk  in 


igo  BEECHY 

some  big  warehouse,  and  it  was  then  that  he  brought  his 
little  wife  to  the  via  del  Violino.  At  first  they  lived 
fairly  comfortably,  for  naturally  a  Cavaleone  had  always  a 
small  amount  of  credit,  and  Carrie  had  the  virtues  as  well 
as  the  faults  of  her  class.  She  was  a  tidy  little  house- 
keeper. 

The  old  rooms  were  in  themselves  beautiful,  and  she 
loved  the  loggia  with  its  twisted  pillars. 

Giulio  worked,  and  for  a  wonder  his  love  lasted. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  a  baby  was  born  and  he  gave 
her  the  beautiful  historical  name  of  her  family — Beatrice. 

Then,  Carrie  began  to  die.  It  took  her  two  years  to 
die,  but  she  wras  happy  to  the  end,  and  he  always  thanked 
the  saints,  in  whom  his  belief  was  as  un'doubting  as  a  child's, 
that  his  accident  did  not  happen  while  she  was  there  to  be 
hurt  by  it. 

Beechy  was  two  when  they  brought  her  father  home 
limp  and  white  after  a  misstep  in  the  darkness  of  the  ware- 
house and  a  little  fall  of  not  more  than  two  feet. 

He  never  walked  again,  and  the  Commendatore,  the 
only  one  of  his  former  friends  who  still  came  to  see  him, 
went,  as  has  been  told,  to  the  old  prince  and  persuaded  him 
that  as  Principe  Cavaleone  he  could  not  allow  his  second 
cousin  to  die  of  starvation. 

So  this  is  how  it  all  happened. 

Whatever  there  is  in  the  theory  of  heredity,  it  must  at 
least  be  admitted  that  it  does  not  fall  to  many  to  come 
of  a  princely  Roman  stock  on  one  side,  and  of  small  dis- 
senting Cockney  shopkeepers  on  the  other. 

In  after  life  Beechy  often  wondered  what  had  induced 
her  to  stay  on  with  the  Pyecrafts. 

She  had  come,  she  by  that  time  realised,  out  of  curiosity, 


BUCINI  19* 

and  the  absolute  need  of  change  that  had  seized  her.  But 
she  was  most  unwelcome  to  her  aunt,  even  after  she  had 
disclosed  her  possession  of  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

The  mental  atmosphere  of  St.  Augustine's  was  certainly 
not  congenial  to  the  artist  in  her,  the  food  was  too  hor- 
rible for  words  (all  her  life  fried  fat  or  butter  sickened 
her),  chapel  was  a  nightmare,  her  aunt  snapped  and  snarled 
at  her  like  some  ill-conditioned  dog,  from  morning  till  night, 
and  made  her  wear  awful  frocks  much  too  large  for  her 
so  that  she  might  have  room  to  grow  in  them. 

The  climate  was  a  thing  unspeakably  horrible,  the  sun 
a  mere  pallid  imitation  of  a  real  sun,  and  the  only  music 
she  heard  was  the  frightful  growling  at  chapel. 

"Why,  then,"  she  once  asked  a  group  of  admiring 
loiterers  as  she  monologued  about  herself  in  the  inno- 
cently egotistic  way  so  characteristic  of  her,  "did  I  not 
leave?" 

And  answering,  as  usual,  her  own  question,  she  de- 
clared with  a  funny  amused  twist  of  her  eyebrows  and  the 
d roily  stuck-out  lower  lip  that  women  were  then  imitating 
and  that  Sargent  deliciously  suggested  in  his  great  portrait 
of  her,  "Why  did  I  not  leave?  Because  the  Cockney  'alf 
of  me  liked  it ! " 

There  was  also,  probably,  her  natural  love  of  teasing, 
for  it  greatly  amused  her  to  watch  her  aunt's  dislike  of  her 
wax  and  wane;  there  was  also  her  real  affection  for  Mr. 
Pyecraft,  and  there  was  the  great  fact  of  her  education. 

For  Aurelio  had  on  his  very  first  visit  been  told  that 
she  wished  to  learn. 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  learn  ?     Everything  ?  " 

To  the  youth's  surprise,  however,  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No.     I  will  learn  English  and  French  and  history." 


192  BEECHY 

"History?" 

"Of  course,"  she  flashed  impatient  as  she  always  was 
of  slowness  of  comprehension. 

"  How  can  I  be  an  actress  if  I  know  no  history?" 

So,  after  two  months'  hard  application  to  the  mysteries 
of  the  English  language,  under  the  ecstatic  guidance  of 
young  Ruffo,  she  learned  to  read  with  an  old  Italian  who 
had  lived  in  London  for  thirty  years  and  whose  English 
was  fairly  good. 

Learning  to  read  English,  she  always  declared,  was  the 
most  difficult  task  of  her  life,  but  at  the  end  of  four 
.months  she  was  sufficiently  master  of  printed  words  to  go 
to  the  Polytechnic  for  history. 

This  place  was  proposed  by  Mr.  Perkins,  who,  in  his 
rather  unctuous  way,  was  extremely  kind  to  her. 

It  advanced  slowly,  the  learning,  for  she  had  an  in- 
herent distaste  for  books,  but  it  a'dvanced. 

It  was  entirely  her  own  idea  not  to  find  a  singing  teacher 
for  the  first  year. 

"  I  am  young,"  she  told  Aurelio,  "  but  I  am  growing 
and  this  English  is  very  tiring.  And  I  must  walk  a  lot." 

Regarding  her  art,  Cavaleone  was  always  distinguished 
by  a  most  unusual  good  sense. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year,  she  wrote  to  Camillo  Subiaco 
and  he  advised  her  to  study  with  a  friend  of  his,  one  Antonio 
Bucini. 

After  violent  opposition  from  Mrs.  Pyecraft,  during 
which  Beechy  went  out  and  looked  for  lodgings,  Aurelio 
discovered  a  means  by  which  to  smooth  things  out. 

His  word  picture  of  Bucini  was  masterly  in  detail,  con- 
sidering that  it  was  drawn  instantaneously  and  entirely 
from  his  imagination. 


BUCINI  193 

"But,  Signora,"  he  cried,  opening  his  fine  eyes  very 
widely  in  affected  amazement,  "  what  can  you  object  to 
in  that  excellent  old  gentleman?  If  you  could  but  see 
him!" 

"  Old  gentleman  ?  "  snapped  Aunt  Augusta,  suspiciously. 

"But  yes!  He  is  over  sixty,  with  much  white  hair. 
And  he  and  his  wife  are  so  religious  and  good.  Your 
Queen  invites  him  to  Windsor,  but  he  says,  '  No  * — very 
politely  he  says,  'No.'  For  why?  He  never  leaves  his 
dear  old  wife." 

Whether  it  was  the  dear  old  wife  or  the  Queen's  invita- 
tion that  convinced  Mrs.  Pyecraft  of  his  suitability  as  a 
teacher  of  the  wicked  art  of  song,  to  Beechy,  one  can  but 
guess,  but  the  old  woman  silently,  ungraciously  withdrew 
her  opposition,  and  Beechy  went  three  days  later  for  her 
first  lesson. 

Aurelio  had  said  nothing  to  her  about  his  fabrications,  so 
the  girl  was  very  much  surprised,  when  she  was  shown  into 
the  master's  inner  room,  to  find  herself  facing  a  man  of 
forty-two  or  three  dressed  in  a  most  lady-killing  way,  and 
surrounded  by  photographs  of  ladies,  all  lovely,  or  at  least 
doing  their  best  to  be  lovely. 

Bucini  had  many  very  bad  qualities. 

He  was  extremely  immoral,  he  was  a  liar  of  the  first 
water;  he  believed  no  good  of  any  living  woman  (his  own 
mother  being,  of  course,  dead). 

But  his  two  good  qualities  stood  out  white  and  clear 
among  all  the  baseness. 

The  man  was  as  unassuming  as  a  baby,  and  he  was  one 
of  the  then  best  singing  teachers  in  the  world. 

The  others  were  a  man  in  Paris,  and  a  little  old  woman 
in  Milan. 


194  BEECHY 

Beechy,  in  her  ill-cut  frock  and  cotton  gloves,  did  not 
please  the  master  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  H'm,  yes;  Subiaco  wrote  to  me  about  you — how  old 
are  you?"  he  asked  her  in  Italian. 

"  Eighteen." 

"You  have  studied?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  wish  to  sing  for  opera?  " 

"Yes." 

"  H'm.  Well,  take  off  your  jacket.  I  will  try  your 
voice — but  I  am  very  busy  just  now." 

His  hair,  Beechy  noticed,  smelt  of  lilac,  and  his  black 
moustache  was  waxed  to  infinitesimal  points.  He  wore  a 
grey  velvet  coat  and  a  silk  shirt  with  a  silk  collar.  In  his 
cuffs  she  observed  baroc  pearls. 

On  his  delicate  watch-chain  hung  a  small  gold  locket 
with  a  fern  leaf  clover  in  emeralds  on  one  side,  and  a  com- 
plicated monogram  in  diamonds,  on  the  other. 

He  made  her  sing  a  scale,  some  octaves,  and  some  sus- 
tained notes. 

Then  he  said :  "  Can  you  sing  me  some  song  or  an 
aria?" 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"  Anything  from  '  ATda,'  or  '  Rigoletto,'  or  '  Traviata,'  or 
'  Faust,'  or  '  Romeo,'  or " 

He  turned,  laughing  up  at  her. 

"The  devil  you  can!  Well,  let's  have  Guilietta's 
waltz." 

"  Ebbene.     I  have  not  sung  it  for  a  year,  but  I  will  try." 

He  used  to   tell   the  story  later. 

"  There  she  stood,   dressed  in  brown-sacking,  with  red 


BUCINI  195 

hands  clasped  in  front  of  her.  She  was  frightened,  though 
she  says  she  wasn't,  for  she  was  pale. 

"  And,  she  sang  the  thing  without  hesitating  once.  Her 
voice  was  cold  and  undeveloped,  si  capisce,  and  she  had  not 
sung  for  a  year,  but — there  she  was,  a  born  singer,  with 
that  marvellous  flexibility  of  voice,  and  the  self-possession 
of  a  Melba!  I  knew,  of  course,  that  I  had  found  a 
treasure." 

What  he  said  to  Beechy  was,  however,  rather  different. 

"Yes,  you  have  a  voice,  Signorina,  and  your  teaching 
hasn't  been  bad,  as  far  as  it  goes — but  you  have  much  to 
learn." 

"  That,"  she  answered,  quite  simply,  yet  with  fine  iron- 
ical effect,  "  is  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

"  Signorina  Bellini  ?  "  he  called. 

And  Signorina  Bellini  (who  for  the  past  ten  years  had 
been  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  of  the  law,  Signora  Bucini) 
came  in,  and  arranged  with  Beechy  when  she  was  to  come 
again. 

"  How  much  do  you  charge  a  lesson?"  the  girl  asked. 

"  H'm.  That — is  according "  he  stammered  a 

little.  "  What  can  you  afford  ?  There  is  no  good  in  your 
taking  lessons  if  paying  for  them  is  going  to  starve  you," 
he  added,  kindly. 

Beechy  reflected.  "  I  have  twelve  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  a  year,"  she  said,  "  and  I  live  with  an  uncle  and 
aunt.  I  have  been  giving  them  six  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  a  year.  Will  the  rest  be  enough  for  you  ?  " 

He  was  startled. 

«  But " 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  she  declared.     "  Quite  right." 


CHAPTER   XXV 

"  AIDA  "  AND  AX  EVENING  FROCK 

MRS.  PYECRAFT  always  remembered  that  the 
night  of  "  Ai'da  "  was  in  April,  and  that  Beechy 
went  with  Aurelio.  It  also  had  not  failed  to 
strike  her  that  Bucini's  Christian  name  was  Alessandro. 
It  was  one  of  the  evenings  destined  to  stand  out  clear  in  the 
memory  of  each  member  of  the  group. 

Beechy  dressed  with  the  lightest  of  hearts. 

She  was  now  nineteen  and  it  may  be  well  to  describe 
her.  She  stood  exactly  five  foot  nine  in  her  stockings,  and 
her  figure  was  fully  developed,  though  less  beautiful  than 
it  became  later,  because  she  wore  bad,  cheap  stays  and  ill- 
cut  clothes. 

Her  hair  she  wore  piled  high  on  her  head.  It  was  very 
thick  and  had  on  either  temple  one  big  smooth  wave. 

The  Sargent  portrait,  whatever  one  may  think  of  other 
portraits  of  the  master,  flatters  her.  He  has  made  her 
nose  more  delicate  than  it  ever  was,  and  he  has  shortened 
her  lips.  The  eyes  are  marvellously  like,  and  the  poise 
of  her  head. 

Her  complexion,  very  rud'dy  when  she  was  a  child,  had 
changed  at  this  time  to  the  soft  peachiness  about  which  we 
all  used  to  talk.  (It  is,  however,  not  true  that  she  never 
made  up  for  the  stage;  she  always  made  up.) 

But  the  great  charm  of  her  was  her  wonderful  mobility 
of  expression.  She  laughed  and  smiled  quietly,  not 
thereby  greatly  disturbing  the  muscles  of  her  mouth,  but 

196 


"  AIDA"  AND  'AN  EVENING  FROCK    197 

her  smile  seemed  to  affect  in  a  curious  way  even  her  brow. 
Some  child  once  called  her  the  lady  with  the  smily  face. 

On  the  other  hand  even  in  private  life,  sorrow  and  anger 
were  quite  as  keenly  shown  in  her  expression.  The  dark- 
ness of  her  eyes  seemed  as  limitless  as  the  darkness  of  a 
starless  night.  Her  hands  were  strong,  not  very  small,  and 
had  very  turned-back  finger  tips,  and  beautifully  shaped  nails 
— the  Cavaleone  hand,  in  short. 

And  she  walked  as  she  had  learned  to  walk  in  her 
rough-shod  Roman  days,  using  the  muscles  of  her  'feet 
as  few  people  have  ever  done. 

The  night  of  "  Ai'da  "  she  dressed  carefully,  put  on  a  long 
grey  ulster,  tied  a  crimson  scarf  round  her  head  and  went 
'downstairs. 

Aurelio  was  already  there,  wearing,  in  honour  of  the 
occasion,  a  red  carnation  in  his  coat. 

A  handsome  young  man,  Aurelio  Ruffo,  with  large, 
golden  brown  eyes  and  brown  satin  hair,  and  white  teeth. 

"  You  have  the  tickets  ?  "  she  asked,  as  she  came  in,  adding 
casually,  "  Good-evening." 

Mrs.  Pyecraft,  who  was  reading,  looked  up  over  her 
spectacles.  "  What  dress  'ave  you  on  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Come  on,  Aurelio,  hurry  or  we  shall  miss  the  'bus," 
cried  Beechy.  "  Good-bye,  Aunt  Augusta ;  good-bye,  Uncle 
'Enry.  Oh— blue,  Aunt." 

She  rushed  Aurelio  out  of  the  house,  and  when  the  door 
closed,  laughed  in  her  throat,  a  kind  of  child-like  chuckle. 

"  It  is  blue,"  she  said  in  Italian. 

"What   is  blue— the  sky?" 

"  My  dress — whatever  you  like.  Oh,  Aurelio,  to  think 
of  it !  To  hear  Subiaco  as  Radames — '  Celeste  Ai'da,'  "  she 
hummed,  as  they  started  briskly  towards  Dawes  Road. 


ig8  BEECHY 

"  It  is  fine  music,"  agreed  the  young  goldsmith,  grarely. 
"  And  I  shouldn't  think  he  could  sing  it ;  it  is  high.  His 
voice  is  more  lyrical." 

Beechy   laughed   scornfully. 

"  Subiaco — not  even  in  a  dream  is  it  lyrical !  You  have 
heard  him  only  in  Faust,  which  doesn't  suit  him  at  all. 
And  to  think  that — let  me  see — four  years  ago,  he  was 
living  at  the  Two  Queens,  and  singing  for  a  thousand 
francs  a  night.  Ah,  there's  the  'bus." 

A  'bus  at  night  is  by  no  means  an  unromantic  vehicle. 
There  is  a  'bus-poetry  just  as  there  is  a  poetry  of  chimney- 
pots. It  is  fine  to  sit  on  high  and  look  down  at  the 
hurrying  world,  the  lights  come  more  into  one's  range  of 
vision  from  bus-height  than  they  do  from  carriage-height. 
The  houses,  the  buildings  are  entities,  not  lower  stories, 
the  mystery  of  traffic  comes  home  to  one  a  thousand  times 
more  clearly  as  one  looks  down  at  the  apparently  inex- 
tricable tangle  of  houses  and  vehicles  that  unravels  so 
smoothly  as  it  works  its  way  onward. 

Beechy  sat  next  an  old  woman  very  much  like  Mrs. 
Gamp  in  appearance — a  waste,  since  Beechy  had  never 
heard  of  the  immortal  Sairey.  In  front  of  her,  next  a 
youth  in  a  red  tie,  sat  Aurelio,  leaning  back  to  look  at 
Beechy. 

He  was  possessed  of  all  the  sympathetic  tact  of  his 
country,  and  knew  that  the  girl  did  not  wish  to  talk.  More- 
over, experience  had  taught  him  that  when  Beechy  had  a 
silent  fit,  either  from  intense  delight  of  appreciation,  like 
this  present  one,  or  one  of  depression,  an  inopportune  word 
was  likely  to  call  forth  from  her  a  sharp  rebuke.  So  they 
were  both  silent  while  the  'bus  went  up  King's  Road  to- 
wards Sloane  Square. 


"AID A"  AND  AN  EVENING  FROCK    199 

While  they  waited  for  the  other  'bus,  Aurelio  shyly  pro- 
duced from  his  pocket  a  small  package. 

"  Bici,  dear,"  he  said  in  Italian,  "  I  did  not  forget  your 
birthday,  but — it  has  only  just  come." 

Beechy  started.  "  Oh,  Grazie, — thank  you  so  much," 
she  answered. 

The  little  package  contained  a  small  book  bound  in 
vellum  and  tied  with  narrow  thongs  of  kid. 

"  It's  Dante's  '  Vita  Nuova,' "  the  young  man  explained, 
rather  shyly.  "  I — I  thought  you  might  like  it." 

Beechy  smiled  at  him.  "  I  do  like  it,  Aurelio.  It  was 
so  kind  of  you — and  it  came  from  the  blessed  country!  " 
(They  had  long  since  agreed  to  speak  of  Italy  always  as 
the  p&ese  beato). 

She  stood  holding  the  book  in  her  hand,  looking  at  it 
rather  absently.  He  knew  that  she  did  not  see  it,  that 
she  was  thinking  of  Rome,  and  for  a  moment  he  said 
nothing. 

Then  he  took  it  from  her. 

"  Open  it — anywhere,  by  chance,  Bici,  and  see  what 
you  come  to — as  a  kind  of  oracle " 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  wish  to " 

"  But  please,  I  beg  of  you  to." 

The  'bus  was  coming.  Hastily  she  opened  the  book 
and  put  her  finger  on  some  lines.  They  were  those  which 
Dante  Rosetti  has  so  well  translated: 

"Certainly  the  Lordship  of  Love  is  evil; 
Seeing  that  the  more  homage  his  servants  pay  to  him 
The  more  grievous  and  painful  are  the  torments 
Wherewith  he  torments  them." 

Beechy  laughed  carelessly.     She  was  superstitious,  but  she 


200  BEECHY 

was  so  young,  at  least  mentally,  that  she  made  no  personal 
application  of  the  words.  But  Aurelio  was  not  too  young. 

He  changed  colour  and  his  hand  flew  to  his  watch- 
chain,  where  hung  a  scrap  of  coral. 

They  climbed  up  on  the  'bus  and  sat  down  together.  He 
was  very  much  in  love,  but  he  never  'dreamed,  even  in 
those  days  of  her  obscurity,  that  Beechy  would  marry  him. 
Indeed  he  never  asked  her  to  do  so,  either  then  or  later. 
His  was  one  of  the  faithful,  undramatic  loves  that  come 
to  most  attractive  women  at  some  time  of  their  lives; 
loves  that  in  their  unselfish  devotion  do  more  than  their 
recipients  ever  dream  of  towards  making  their  lives  pleasant 
and  easy. 

To  Beechy,  Aurelio  was  as  necessary  now  as  he  had  been 
in  the  days  when  he  was  her  only  means  of  communication 
with  the  little  world  in  which  she  found  herself. 

He  took  her  to  concerts,  fetched  her  when  he  could  do 
so,  from  her  singing  lessons,  bought  books  for  her  at  prices 
which  an  older  woman  would  have  suspected.  He  gave 
her  flowers,  walked  with  her,  showed  to  her  the  great 
pictures  that  are  part  of  England's  treasure.  He  once  even 
bought  her  some  stockings  when  she  was  too  busy  with 
Charles  XI  to  go  shopping  herself — but  that  was  long  ago. 

He  was  not  unhappy,  the  good  Ruffo.  His  love  was 
too  true  and  too  unselfish  for  him  not  to  derive  from  it 
much  joy.  But  it  was  changing  his  nature,  and  he  was 
even  now  quieter,  less  merry  than  formerly. 

He  lived  alone,  this  cavaliere  servente,  in  a  room  in  his 
employer's  house,  and  he  worked  hard  at  his  delicate  trade 
that  is  an  art.  He  neglected  nothing,  scamped  nothing,  but 
more  and  more  Beechy  grew  to  be  a  sort  of  monomania 
with  him. 


"'AID A"  AND  AN  EVENING  FROCK    201 

He  thought  of  her  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  the 
last  thing  at  night. 

And  all  these  things  Beechy  knew  in  a  way;  if  you  had 
asked  her  about  them  she  could  have,  and  would  have,  told 
them  to  you  without  hesitation,  but  she  did  not,  neverthe- 
less, realise  in  the  least  what  it  meant. 

He  had  given  her  his  life  and  she  took  it  with  pleased 
careless  fingers  as  a  child  would  take  a  priceless  jewel. 

As  the  'bus  made  its  way  down  Piccadilly,  the  young  man 
pondered  all  these  things  for  the  thousandth  time. 

"  She  likes  me  as  yet  better  than  any  other  man,"  he 
thought,  "  but  when  she  loves  some  man  she  will  forget 
me.  Shall  I  be  able  to  bear  it  ?  " 

And  this  was  all  his  rebellion.  There  are  some  few 
such  men,  but  not  many.  Perhaps  in  the  old  days  there 
were  more;  these  are  individualist  days  when  selfishness  has 
been  furbished  up  into  something  like  a  virtue. 

"  Certainly  '  the  Lordship  of  Love  is  evil,'  "  he  quoted 
to  himself.  "  Does  that  mean  it  will  be  evil  to  her?  " 

Again  he  touched  his  bit  of  coral. 

Beechy  meantime  was  blissfully  happy.  Before  her  lay 
the  joy  of  hearing  Subiaco  sing  the  best  of  Verdi's  operas; 
and  in  the  mere  present  she  sat  cool  and  comfortable  on  a 
'bus  watching  London. 

People  who  sit  and  wait  for  great  moments,  miss  many 
wonderful  small  moments,  and  they  are  to  be  pitied. 

A  barrow  of  oranges  half  unrolled  from  twisted  purple 
papers,  caught  Beechy's  eye. 

"  Look,  Aurelio, — what  a  lovely  colour  effect,"  she  cried. 

As  Tosca  her  cloak  was  of  orange  velvet  lined  with 
violet,  and  she  told  Aurelio  that  the  idea  had  come  to  her 
that  night  in  the  'bus. 


202  BEECHY 

Proudly  Aurelio  conducted  her  towards  the  stalls,  and 
as  she  took  off  her  ugly  ulster  he  gasped. 

Beechy  was  in  evening  dress! 

It  was  a  dark  blue  gauzy  stuff,  almost  sapphire  in  shade^ 
and  it  was  made  without  ornament,  in  swathing  folds. 

"  Dio  Santa,  Bici, — you  are  magnificent,"  the  young 
fellow  said. 

She  smiled.  "Yes,  am  I  not?  When  the  master  gave 
me  the  tickets  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  decent 
frock.  And  dark  blue  wears  well,"  she  added  care- 
lessly. "  It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  find  I  had  good 
shoulders." 

Her  throat  was  even  then  very  classic  in  its  white 
strength. 

Aurelio  looked  at  her  shyly. 

It  hardly  seemed  possible  to  him  that  this  was  really 
Beechy. 

They  took  their  places  and  looked  round. 

It  was  her  first  glimpse  of  the  luxurious  side  of  opera- 
going. 

Strange  to  sit  in  front  of  and  behind  jewelled  ladies  and 
beautifully  dressed  men;  strange  to  see,  as  she  glanced 
round,  the  hair  on  the  brows  of  the  men;  there  seemed 
much  more  hair  in  London  seen  from  the  stalls  than  seen 
from  the  gallery. 

A  girl  near  by  wore  a  string  of  beautiful  pearls,  and 
next  her  an  old  woman  wore  diamonds. 

"  Which  do  you  like  best  ?  "  asked  Aurelio,  following  her 
eyes. 

"  Diamonds.  Pearls  are  dead,  like  drawn  teeth,  but 
diamonds  are  alive  and  burn." 

She  never  wore  a  pearl,  for  this  fancy's  sake. 


" AID  A"  AND  AN  EVENING  FROCK    203 

At  last  the  tuning  up  began  and  her  eyes  stopped  roam- 
ing. 

Surely  Verdi  was  of  the  very  greatest.  A  comparative 
study  of  his  operas  seems  to  me  to  reveal  an  almost  un- 
paralleled scale  of  improvement. 

Compare  "  La  Traviata  "  with  "  Aida!  "  Or  the  Ballo  in 
"  Maschera "  with  "  Othello."  A  beautiful,  busy  life, 
crowned  when  he  was  a  very  old  man  by  the  modern,  mas- 
terly Falstaff.  {But  "  Ai'da  "  is  the  best  of  all,  to  me,  and 
to  Beechy. 

Beechy  knew  "  Aida  "  well.  One  of  Bucini's  admirable 
theories  was  that  an  artist  singing  a  role  in  an  opera  needed 
a  thorough  comprehension,  not  only  of  his  or  her  role,  but 
of  the  whole  opera. 

And  his  accompanist  was  a  great  pianist  manque;  a  man 
who  but  for  his  weakness  for  vodka  might  have  been  a 
worthy  rival  of  the  best.  So  the  lessons  were  not  only 
lessons  in  singing,  but  in  music,  and  thus  Beechy  knew  much 
of  the  best  operatic  music  in  the  world,  and  operatic  music 
was  the  only  kind  that  ever  appealed  to  her.  An  orchestra 
without  the  accompaniments  of  voice  and  action  left  her 
perfectly  cold  always. 

So  she  was  well  prepared,  that  evening,  for  the  feast  of 
sound  offered  to  her. 

The  "  Aida  "  was  good  but  not  wonderful ;  and  disregard- 
ing the  perfection  of  Subiaco,  the  best  Radames  there  has  ever 
been,  Beechy  sat  there  watching  the  prima  donna,  all  her 
old  critical  faculty  burning  like  a  fire  within  her. 

"Splendid,  isn't  she?"  whispered  Aurelio,  and  Beechy 
answered,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  stage,  "  No.  You  wait 
till  I  sing  it!" 

After  the  first  act,  while  the  house  still  echoed  with  the 


204  BEECHY 

wild  applause  in  which  the  British  public,  once  well  stirred, 
is  second  to  none,  a  good-looking  man  with  a  daffodil  in 
his  coat  came  and  spoke  to  Beechy. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  Signorina?"  he  said  courte- 
ously, "  Subiaco  wishes  to  see  you." 

"  Subiaco !  "  Her  voice  expresse'd  great  joy  but  no  sur- 
prise. Of  course  I  will  come,  Maestro.  May  Signer 
RufTo  come  too  ?  " 

Bucini  nodded  carelessly.  "  That  understands  it- 
self  •" 

They  found  the  tenor  lying  on  a  sofa  in  his  dressing- 
room  drinking  black  coffee  in  which  were  beaten  up  the 
yolks  of  two  raw  eggs. 

He  looked  strange  and  very  ugly  in  his  make-up,  but 
his  manner  was  as  natural  as  that  of  a  child. 

" Eccola"  he  cried  in  a  whisper,  jumping  up  and  shak- 
ing Beechy  by  the  hand,  "  here  she  is,  the  little  Roman, — 
but  a  big  Roman  now.  How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

«  Like " 

"But  the  performance!  Did  I  sing  well?  Do  I  look 
well?  Do  you  like  my  costume?" 

He  watched  her  as  anxiously  as  if  his  whole  career  de- 
pended on  her  answer. 

"  Splendid.     Glorious." 

"Good!  And  you  like  my  gestures?  I  am  dignified, 
ah?  Not  too  Italian, — sufficiently  Egyptian?" 

Aurelio  listened  with  a  flicker  of  amusement  under  his 
young  moustache,  but  Aurelio  was  not  an  opera-singer. 

They  talked  for  five  minutes,  entirely  about  Subiaco  him- 
self, and  then  he  sent  them  away.  "  I  must  rest — the  duet 
in  the  next  act  is  horrible,  it  breaks  my  heart " 


"AID A"  AND  AN  EVENING  FROCK     205 

Still  under  his  breath  he  produced  a  number  of  sharp 
nasal  tones  between  a  snarl  and  a  bark. 

"  Ah,  yes,  my  voice  is  high  to-night — the  timbre  is  good. 
Good-bye  now.  Come  to  see  me  to-morrow,  at  the  Savoy, 
at  eleven.  I  wish  to  hear  you  sing.  You  bring  her, 
Bucini — good-bye,  good-bye " 

He  waved  them  out  and  as  the  door  closed  they  heard 
once  more  his  queer  little  nasal  bark  as  he  tried  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
A  YEAR  LATER 

"May  nth. 

DEAREST  Signora  Scarpia: 
"  I  have  delayed  writing  to  you  because  I  knew 
the  papers  I  sent  you  could  tell  you  the  news  better 
than  I.     It  is  all  true  and  I,  your  little  Bici,  am  now  the 
Cavaleone!     It  is  raining  to-day  and  I  am  lying  down  in 
my  Salotto,  and  Aurelio  Ruffo  of  whom  I  have  written  to 
you  is  writing  to  you  for  me.     You  know  how  horribly  I 
write,  and  now  I  loathe  it.     Well,  Aurelio  writes  all  my 
letters  now,  and  corrects  them  when  I  make  mistakes! 

"  You  want  to  hear  it  all  from  the  beginning.  Please 
read  it  to  dear  Father  Antonio,  will  you?  An'd  give  him 
my  love  and  ask  him  from  me  if  he  would  mind  telling 
them  in  the  via  del  Violino?  They  will  all  be  glad,  dear 
Signora  Marianna,  and  old  Agnese,  and  the  rest. 

"Well, — if  you  could  see  the  room  I  write  you  from! 

"The  woodwork  is  all  white,  shiny  and  carved  with 
wreaths  of  flowers,  there  is  yellow  silk  on  the  walls,  and 
there  is  a  golden  clock  on  the  chimney-piece. 

"  The  chairs  are  yellow  and  gold  and  white.  There  is 
an  open  fire — a  big  one,  sticks,  but  no  pine  cones ;  Aurelio  is 
going  to  get  me  some. 

"  Then  I  have  a  bedroom  and  a  bathroom  made  of  white 
tilis.  I  take  a  bnth  every  day. 

206 


A   YEAR  LATER  207 

"  My  bedroom  is  beautiful,  white  and  pink,  and  my 
maid  is  opposite  me.  Yes,  la  mia  camcriera*  isn't  it  a 
joke  ? 

"  Well, — four  weeks  ago  I  '  got  my  chance,'  as  you  wrote 
me  I  should,  and  sang  Giulietta.  It  was  pretty  bad,  my 
voice  wasn't  clear  and  I  was  so  frightened  I  kept  forgetting 
the  words.  Subiaco  prompted  me  a  dozen  times.  It  was 
so  bad,  I  thought  they'd  hiss,  but  they  didn't.  They  are 
not  very  particular,  the  English,  and  I  looked  pretty, 
whereas  the  last  Juliet,  Madame  Delavigne,  is  as  broad  as 
she  is  long,  and  old. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  role,  Giulietta. 

"  Wasn't  it  strange  that  I  was  so  frightened,  after  sing- 
ing all  this  year  in  the  Provinces? 

"  When  the  Maestro  got  the  provincial  engagement  for 
me  he  did  it  so  I  should  get  over  being  nervous,  but,  God 
in  heaven,  it  did  not  help  at  all. 

"To  sing  in  Manchester  or  any  other  provincial  town  is 
less  trying  than  to  sing  in  any  Italian  village,  the  peopl« 
are  so  inartistic. 

"  But  London — what  they  don't  understand  they  pretend 
that  they  do,  and  they  fool  each  other  and  sometimes  them- 
selves ! 

"  Well,  then,  I  cried  after  the  first  act  and  dear  Subiaco 
gave  me  some  coffee  and  I  felt  better.  The  second  act 
wasn't  much  better  as  to  voice,  but  I  found  I  could  act. 
There  are  very  few  singers  who  can  act. 

"  S.  was  an  angel  to  me  and  I  enjoyed  it,  although  I  had 
no  mezza  voce  at  all. 

"  When  it  was  all  over  these  dear  geese  called  and  called 
for  me,  by  name  if  you  please,  and  I  had  two  baskets  of 
flowers,  one  from  dear  Aurelio  and  the  other  from  Bucini. 


208  BEECHY 

"  You  will  understand  that  I  sang  Giulietta  only  because 
the  prima  donna  was  ill. 

"Luckily  she  got  worse,  so  the  next  week  I  sang 
Margherita.  And,  oh,  Signora  mia  cara,  I  sang  well. 
Aubepine,  the  French  tenor,  was  Faust,  and  sang  in  French, 
while  I  of  course  sang  in  Italian.  I  was  frightened  at  first, 
but  got  over  it,  and  my  voice  was  very  good. 

"  Of  course  there  is  nothing  like  practise,  and  some  day 
I  am  going  to  be  the  very  best  Margherita,  but — well,  you 
saw  the  papers. 

"  Aubepine  was  much  pleased.  He  said  I  made  him  feel 
such  a  beast,  and  I  don't  wonder.  What  a  part  Faust's  is, 
what  a  miserable  little  man  he  was. 

"Well, — the  next  day  I  was  sent  for  to  see  Mr.  Harri- 
son, the  one  who  engages  the  singers  at  the  opera,  and  he 
engaged  me  for  the  rest  of  the  season.  They  are  so  rich, 
so  rich,  these  English! 

"  I  have  so  much  money  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do, 
and  Bucini  has  made  me  come  to  this  grand  hotel  to  live 
and  have  a  maid,  and  they  took  me  to  a  shop  called  Gie's 
(that  is  the  way  it  is  pronounced)  and  Bucini's  secretary, 
Signorina  Bellini,  chose  clothes  for  me. 

"  You  would  like  them  only  they  are  of  dull  colours ; 
me,  I  prefer  frank  bright  colours,  but  it  doesn't  much 
matter. 

"  Aurelio  is  tired,  so  I  must  stop.  I  have  sung  five  times 
and  to-morrow  am  to  sing  Gilda. 

"  People  send  me  flowers  and  letters  which  Aurelio  reads. 
I  have  had  my  photograph  taken  twice  and  enclose  one  of 
me  as  Margherita.  The  dress  is  grey  and  I  wear  my  hair 
plaited. 

"  My  love  to  you.     Write  soon  to  your  Bid." 


A    YEAR   LATER  209 

This  letter  more  or  less  explains  itself,  and  the  interval 
between  the  evening  of  "  Alda,"  an  interval  of  just  a  year, 
can  be  described  in  a  few  words. 

Subiaco,  delighted  with  her  voice,  after  some  consulta- 
tion with  Bucini  had  got  her  an  engagement  in  a  very  good 
touring  company,  in  which  hard  school  she  learned  the 
thousand  small  technicalities,  the  lack  of  which  damn  so 
many  gifted  amateurs. 

It  was  no  easy  life,  for  she  sang  nearly  every  night,  in 
second  rate  uncomfortable  theatres,  and  her  lodgings  were 
cheap  and  her  foo'd  bad. 

But  these  things  did  not  either  frighten  or  harm  her, 
and  when  her  chance  came  she  was  readier  to  take  it  than 
her  letter  implies. 

From  the  first  the  public,  about  whom  she  was  so  impolite, 
was  charmed  with  her,  and  that  goes  a  very  long  way  to- 
wards being  half  the  battle  anywhere. 

Her  fright  lent  her  only  a  certain  gauche  grace  better 
fitted  to  the  young  Juliet  than  the  maturer  fascinations  of 
Madame  Delavigne,  and  her  lovely  true  voice  was  too  well 
placed  to  be  unbeautiful  even  when  she  was  frightened. 

And  this  brings  us  to  a  period  when  a  short  resume  must 
be  given  of  her  different  admirers. 

They  were  many,  but  they  were  of  very  little  importance 
to  her,  so  they  may  be  hastily  classified. 

I.  Aurelio  Ruffo,  unaspiring  slave  and  faithful  friend. 

II.  Bucini,  her  teacher,  tentative,  quickly  convinced  of 
the  uselessness  of  his  attempts,  hence  almost  immediately, 
and  quite  unsuspected,  retiring  from  the  field. 

III.  Harold  Purefoy,  Esq.,  of  Barfield,  in  the  county  of 
Yorkshire.     Intentions    undecided,     more     a     gentlemanly 


aio  BEECHY 

rustic's  reaching  out  for  adventures,  than  anything  else. 
Snubbed  into  immediate  submission  and  married  three 
months  later  to  a  redheaded  cousin. 

IV.  Sir  Oliver  Cheshunt:     Intentions  strictly  dishonour- 
able.    Disposed  of  one  autumn  evening  by  a  severe  box  on 
the  ear  and  the  unpleasing  realisation  that  she  was  three 
inches  taller,  and  two  inches  broader  across  the  shoulders 
than  he. 

V.  Reverend  Peter  Creesdale,  a  curate  who  should  have 
been  nearly  anything  else,  whom  she  refused  very  kindly  and 
to  whom  she  gave  a  lock  of  her  hair. 

VI.  (And  up  to  the  period  of  her  letter  to  the  Scarpia, 
last,)    Cricket  Londale,  stroke  of  last  year's  Oxford  crew 
and  one  of  the  finest  youths  who  ever  lived.    No  intentions 
whatever,  nothing  but  an  aching,  maddening  love  to  which 
she  lent  a  patient  though  bored  ear,  and  whom  she  mimicked 
for  Aurelio's  benefit. 

She  was  of  the  kind  of  women  with  whom  men  do  fall  in 
love. 

Roughly  speaking,  women  may  be  divided  into  two  classes, 
the  kind  men  do,  and  the  kind  men  don't,  fall  in  love  with, 
and  Beechy  was  indisputably  of  the  former  class. 

But  she  was  not  a  flirt,  and  she  was  very  busy  indeed,  so 
that  the  above  classification  by  no  means  fails  to  express  her 
attitude  towards  her  victims. 

The  next  person  to  be  noted  is  Lady  Cossie  Bleck. 

How  Lady  Cossie  (Cassandra)  got  hold  of  the  new 
soprano,  people  often  wondered,  and  many  of  the  most 
romantic  suppositions  were  made  about  the  matter. 

The  truth,  which  never  occurred  to  anybody,  was  simply 
this: 


A    YEAR  LATER  211 

Lady  Cossie  wrote  to  Beechy  and  telling  her  how  much 
she  liked  her  singing  (oh  horrible  limitations  of  the  Eng- 
lish language),  asked  her  to  lunch  with  her. 

And  Beechy  went. 

Aurelio  advised  her  to  do  so,  because  Lady  Cossie  was  a 
lady  and  not  a  plain  Mrs.  Also  because  she  lived  in  Upper 
Grosvenor  Street. 

Lady  Cossie  was  a  little  old  woman,  unmarried,  who  was 
said  to  have  been  very  much  in  love  with  the  present  King, 
though  she  had  never  spoken  to  him.  She  had  a  very  ugly 
house  full  of  mirrors  and  dark  plush,  and  she  wore  the  old 
clothes  of  a  gay  young  cousin,  which  gave  her  a  rather 
ridiculous  air  of  false  youth. 

She  was  poor,  but  she  would  not  let  her  town  house, 
and  she  was  supposed  to  be  translating  into  English  one  of 
M.  Beyle's  peerless  romances. 

"  I  like  your  singing  very  much,"  Lady  Cossie  said,  as 
she  gave  poor  hungry  Beechy  one  of  the  two  attenuated 
chops  on  the  silver  platter  before  her. 

"  Tank  you,"  Beechy  answered  politely. 

"  And  I  thought  you  looked  nice,  so  I  wanted  to  meet 
you." 

"  Tank  you." 

Lady  Cossie  wore  a  pale-green  frock  embroidered  in 
silver;  a  Grand  Prix  frock  of  last  year.  Mrs.  Gerry  Bon- 
nard,  her  cousin,  had  been  a  dream  in  it,  and  when  she  told 
Lady  Cossie  this  interesting  fact,  that  courageous  old  girl 
retorted  like  a  shot,  "  And  I  shall  be  a  nightmare,"  which 
she  was. 

Behind  her  hung  a  sketch  of  Angelica  Kauffmann,  sup- 
posed to  have  been  drawn  by  Sir  Joshua,  and  on  the  opposite 
wall  hung  an  excellent  Hoppner. 


212  BEECHY 

But  there  was  thin  bouillon,  a  chop  apiece  and  a  thimble- 
ful of  peas,  a  tiny  sweet  omelette  and  a  peach  apiece,  for 
luncheon. 

Beechy,  hungry  singer,  longed  for  food,  but  her  little 
hostess  seemed  well-pleased. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Twenty-one." 

"You  look  older." 

"Yes, — I  am  so  strong.     I  used " 

"What  did  you  use  to  do,  tell  me  I" 

"Aurelio — a  friend  of  mine,  said  I  mass  not  tell  too 
much — many  things!" — returned  the  girl,  simply. 

"Ah,  but  to  me!" 

"  Well — I  used  to  work  very  hard,  sweeping  and  garden- 
ing  " 

"But  where " 

For  a  moment  Beechy  weighed  in  her  mind  the  rival 
advisabilities  of  the  Two  Queens  and  the  convent  as  an 
answer.  Then  with  some  shrewdness  she  said,  "  In  a  con- 
vent in  Rome." 

"  Ah !     So  you  were  educated  in  Rome  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  h'educated  anywhere,  but  I  lived  in  the  con- 
vent for  long  time." 

Lady  Cossie,  in  pursuit  of  information,  was  indefatigable. 

"  And  is  Cavaleone  your  real  name,  my  dear  ?  When 
I  was  in  Rome  years  ago, — my  brother  was  Minister — I 
knew  a  Prince  Cavaleone " 

She  hesitated. 

Beechy,  looking  up  from  the  chop  bone  she  was  scraping 
with  more  enthusiasm  than  is  usual  in  society,  nodded 
shortly.  "  My  father's  cousin,  he's  dead" 

This  simple  statement,  passing  through  the  filter  of  Lady 


rA  YEAR  LATER  213 

Cossie's  imagination,  did  for  Beechy  far  more  than  she  ever 
imagined. 

"  You  remember  old  Prince  Cavaleone  in  Rome  ?  To 
whose  palazzo  we  went  to  see  the  Carnival  Procession, 
Charles  dear?  He's  her  cousin." 

The  next  person  received  the  impression  that  the  old  man 
was  her  uncle, — and  so  on  it  went. 

"  Dearest  Signora,"  she  burst  out  in  one  of  the  letters 
dictated  to  the  good  Aurelio,  "  last  night  I  dined  at  the 

house  of  Lord  X ,  such  a  beautiful  staircase  there  is, 

and  such  beautiful  gold  dishes.  And  the  food!  Never 
have  I  eaten  so  well,  or  so  much.  It  is  wonderful,  the 
way  they  live,  these  English !  I  sang  after  dinner,  but  I  had 
eaten  too  much  and  my  voice  was  not  good,  but  they  did  not 
know.  .  .  .  To-morrow  I  am  going  to  the  house  of  a 
Duchess  to  lunch.  I  met  her  yesterday,  and  she  is  very 
nice,  but  made  up  as  for  the  theatre,  which  does  not  look 
well  in  the  sunlight.  .  .  . 

"  English  girls  are  wonderful,  so  beautiful,  so  sweet,  and 
such  delicious  voices  when  they  speak.  When  they  sing, — 
behold,  it  is  polenta  in  the  throat.  Very  dreadful.  .  .  . 
The  Signori  are  very  fine,  with  beautiful  shining  nails. 
Their  teeth  are  not  so  good  as  Italians.  They  wear  sweet 
smelling  stuff  on  their  hair  which  is  quite  flat  and  shining 
like  satin.  They  tell  me  I  am  beautiful,  and  they  stare  at 
me,  but  I  like  it  ...  etc.,  etc." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
BEECHY  MEETS  LORD  CHARLES  CRESSAGE 

THE  critics  at  this  time  had  much  to  say  about 
Cavaleone,  and  the  greater  part  of  it  seems  to  have 
been  true.  They  agreed  that  she  was  the  most  de- 
lightful creature  on  the  operatic  stage,  that  her  voice  was 
well  placed,  true,  and  spontaneous. 

No  one  denied  that  she  had  her  many  roles  at  her  fingers' 
— or  tongue's — end.  And  her  acting,  by  itself  was  wonder- 
ful. 

To  see  her  one  night  as  Marguerite  and  the  next  as  Carmen 
was  amazing,  for  the  one  looked  not  a  bit  like  the  other  and 
the  very  quality  of  her  voice  seemed  to  change  with  the 
opera;  the  voice  of  poor  Marguerite  being  limpid,  tender 
and  pathetic,  while  that  of  Carmen  seemed  heavier,  warmer, 
more  passionate. 

The  fact  that  she  could  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  sing  the 
role  of  the  abandoned  little  cigarette-maker  as  she  did, 
proved  not  only  that  she  was  a  great  singer,  but  that  she 
was  an  incomparable  mimic.  She  had  seen  Calve.  She 
had  seen  Ridolfi  in  the  role,  and  from  her  keen  observation 
of  them  she  had,  so  to  say,  compiled  her  own  edition  of  the 
character. 

And  she  was  singing  Carmen  when  she  met  Charles 
Cressage. 

It  was  a  gala  night  and  the  house  was  ablaze  with  jewels. 

In  the  Royal  box  sat  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales, 

214 


MEETS   LORD    CHARLES    CRESSAGE     215 

and  nearly  every  grand  tier  box  had  its  diamond  fender,  for 
a  big  ball  was  on  that  evening. 

Beechy  sat  in.  her  dressing-room  making  up. 

It  was  warm  and  she  mopped  impatiently  at  her  fore- 
head as  beads  of  perspiration  gathered  there  to  the  detri- 
ment of  her  work. 

Her  hair,  which  she  wore  in  two  long  plaits,  was  tied 
with  scraps  of  red  ribbon,  and  she  wore  a  costume  of  her 
own  invention,  a  short  red  skirt,  and  a  white  blouse  over 
which  was  crossed  a  little  green  silk  shawl.  A  work  girl's 
dress,  it  was,  but  effective  in  colour  and  very  becoming  to 
her. 

"  Curses  on  this  heat,"  she  growled  in  Italian ;  "  give  me 
a  cup  of  coffee,  please,  Signora.  Oh,  I  am  so  nervous! " 

The  Signora, — for  it  was  an  old  acquaintance,  brought 
over  by  the  exigencies  of  Beechy's  new  position,  and  a. 
most  miserable  old  woman  away  from  her  beloved  Italy, — 
poured  out  the  coffee. 

She  was  resplendent,  in  her  peculiar  way,  for  Beechy 
loved  to  give,  but  she  wore  no  stays  and  not  even  the 
opulent  richness  of  the  folds  of  ruby  coloured  silk  could 
conceal  the  superabundance  of  her  bosom. 

At  her  throat,  fastened  in  a  bit  of  spangled  lace,  was  a 
brooch  of  small  diamonds,  also  a  present  from  Beechy. 

And  her  still  abundant  and  black  hair  was  combed  into  a 
mountain  of  oily  waves  and  caught  with  a  jewelled  comb. 

"Why  should  you  be  nervous?"  she  asked,  reproach- 
fully. "  You  have  sung  it  a  dozen  times." 

Beechy  turned  to  her  an  exasperated  face  roughly  smeared 
with  grease  paints. 

"  Just  try  singing  in  public  yourself,"  she  cried.  "  Nerv- 
ous! Go  and  see  Subiaco.  He'll  throw  things  at  you." 


2i6  BEECHY 

The  Signora  rocked  comfortably  to  and  fro  in  her  chair. 
"  Va  bene,  va  bene,  cara;  be  as  nervous  as  you  like.  And 
have  some  more  coffee.  It  is  poison  for  the  nerves!  " 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing.  "  Give  me  that  box, 
please.  You  are  right,  I  am  absurd.  But — oh,  the  hor- 
ror of  the  first  glance  at  all  these  people,  every  single 
one  of  them  seems  an  executioner.  There,  is  that  all 
right?" 

As  she  spoke,  Subiaco  came  into  the  room  dressed  in  his 
uniform.  He  was  made  up  but  looked  agitated. 

"What  shall  I  do?  "  he  began,  "the  Prince  and  Princess 
are  here,  and  I  am  so  hoarse  I  can't  speak !  " 

Beechy  looked  at  him. 

"  Macch& !  Nonsense,  Subiachino  mio.  Your  voice  is  all 
right.  Try  the  pitch." 

He  shook  his  head  piteously.  "  I — I  am  hoarse,  I  tell 
you " 

Bici  rummaged  among  the  things  on  her  untidy  dressing- 
table  and  found  a  tuning-pipe,  which  she  blew.  "  There!  " 

Obediently  the  great  artist  sang  the  note,  and  after  a 
moment  or  two  another  and  another. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  hoarse. 

The  Signora  laughed  but  with  a  little  fierce  gesture. 
Beechy  silenced  her.  To  her,  Subiaco's  state  of  nerves 
was  a  serious  matter,  a  kind  of  instantaneous  tragedy. 

He  sat  down  by  her  and  took  hold  of  her  long  plaits. 

"  You  console  me,  bring  me  luck,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"You  bring  me  luck,"  she  retorted  with  one  of  her  very 
few  flare-ups  of  gratitude.  "You  have  brought  me — all  I 
have." 

At  that  moment  the  orchestra  struck  up,  and  Subiaco 
left  the  room. 


MEETS  LORD    CHARLES   CRESSAGE      217 

"  He  is  very  superstitious,"  commented  the  Signora,  to 
whom,  as  to  most  people,  familiarity  had  brought,  not  con- 
tempt, but  a  friendly  lack  of  reverence. 

"  Yes,"  answered   Beechy,   thoughtfully.     .     .     . 

Her  first  fright  over,  her  voice  came  in  great  volume 
and  beauty  and  sure  of  every  note  in  her  role  she  could  give 
herself  up  to  the  joy  of  being  Carmen. 

"  It  sings  itself,"  she  whispered  to  someone. 

And  as  she  coquetted  about  the  stage,  trying  to  attract 
Jose's  attention,  she  looked  up  to  a  lower  tier  box  on  the 
right,  and  saw  Charles  Cressage's  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

His  face  as  she  looked  at  it  seemed  a  very  strange  and 
contradictory  one.  And  because  she  subconsciously  formu- 
lated everything,  she  rapidly  drew  a  little  mental  descrip- 
tion of  him. 

It  was,  she  thought,  a  classic  face  full  of  modern  expres- 
sion; it  had  a  look  of  great  innocence,  the  result  of  being 
very  experienced;  it  was  the  face  of  a  man  very  young  for 
his  years,  and,  for  these  same  years,  very  old. 

Again  and  again  her  eyes  met  his.  And  as  she  sat  in 
the  chair  mocking  Jose,  Cressage  took  a  card  from  his  pocket 
and  scribbling  something  on  it,  retired  from  sight. 

The  card  was  on  her  table,  as  she  knew  it  would  be, 
when  she  entered  a  few  minutes  later. 

Lord  Charles  Cressage — and  following  the  engraved 
words  he  had  written :  "  begs  Signora  Cavaleone  to  do  him 
the  great  honour  of  permitting  him  to  have  a  moment's  con- 
versation with  her  after  the  opera." 

She  was  glad,  and  saw  no  reason  for  pretending  to  be 
annoyed.  The  man  interested  her,  and  she  would  be  glad 
to  see  him. 

Not  so  the  Signora,  a  model  of  all  the  proprieties. 


2i8      .  BEECHY 

"  Very  impertinent,  my  dear,  and  you  living  in  a  grand 
hotel,  like  a  lady ! "  the  good  woman  expostulated. 

*T  He  is  handsome,  Signora  mia  cara,  and — he  is  to  be 
shown  in  here.  Understand  ?  " 

When  the  last  thunder  of  applause  had  echoed  away  into 
silence  over  poor  little  Carmen,  Cressage  appeared  at  the 
stage  door  and  was  conducted  at  once  to  Cavaleone's  dress- 
ing-room. 

He  found  her  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  wrapped  in  a  shabby 
old  red  cloak,  drinking  Chianti  and  eating  a  piece  of  rough 
grey  Italian  bread  that  the  useful  Scarpia  provided  her  with. 

She  had  not  expected  him  so  soon. 

Without  moving  she  looked  up,  and  he  never  forgot  the 
picture.  The  red  cloak,  her  high  piled  hair  with  its  great 
carved  comb,  her  beautiful  forearm  in  the  strong  light,  the 
ruby  wine. 

"  Lord  Charles  Cressage — eh,"  she  said  gravely. 

She  never  learned  to  pronounce  the  name. 

"  Yes.    You  are  very  kind  to  see  me " 

He  was  never  eloquent  and  his  wit,  such  as  it  was,  was 
spasmodic. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  see  me,"  he  repeated. 

Beechy  smiled. 

"You  liked  it?"  she  asked.  "The  singing?  And  the 
acting?  I  was  good?  Ver*  good?  " 

Her  anxiety  to  have  his  opinion  flattered  him,  which  it 
nee'd  not  have  done.  Just  then  he  was  to  her  not  an  in- 
dividual at  all;  he  was  merely  the  mouthpiece  of  her  late 
audience. 

But  he  could  not  answer.  Something  in  her  affected  him 
strangely,  making  him  inarticulate  and  awkward  behind  his 
smooth  handsome  mask. 


MEETS  LORD    CHARLES  CRESSAGE      219 

"If — you  heard  us  applaud.  And  look, — I  have  split 
my  glove." 

He  held  up  his  hand. 

Beechy  nodded,  very  much  pleased. 

"Ah,  bravo.  Yes,  it  was  good.  Subiaco  was  wonder- 
ful. Oh,  that  romanza  with  its  b  flat!" 

He  nodded. 

"  Bother  Subiaco ! "  he  exclaimed  impatiently.  "  It's  you 
J.  care  about.  Your  voice.  You — you "  He  stam- 
mered, staring  at  her. 

Beechy  burst  into  delighted  laughter. 

"I!  Me!  Oh,  I  am  vaf  please!  Delighted.  But 
you  flatter  me." 

She  was  very  beautiful  as  she  stood  there,  and  more,  to 
him,  than  beautiful.  Most  men  know  what  it  means,  the 
abrupt,  almost  appalling  coming  of  the  one  woman. 

Cressage,  who  at  that  very  moment  was  engaged  in  three 
different  love-affairs,  knew  that  something  had  happened  to 
him  and,  vaguely,  he  realised  what  it  was,  but  he  did  not 
put  a  name  to  it,  even  to  himself. 

"Are  you  doing  anything  now?  "  he  asked.  "  I  mean,  if 
you  are  not,  perhaps  you  will  come  to  supper  with  me  ?  " 

Beechy  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  will.  I  am  very  hungry.  I 
want  eggs — a  great  many  eggs, " 

Going  to  the  door  she  called  in  the  banished  Signora  and 
explained  to  her  what  was  going  to  happen. 

Then  she  asked  Cressage  to  wait  for  her  at  the  stage  door 
in  half  an  hour. 

And,  having  called  his  motor  he  paced  up  and  down  by 
it  until  the  two  women  appeared. 

Beechy  wished  to  go  to  the  Savoy  which  she  loved,  but 
moved  by  some  semi-conscious  jealousy  he  took  them  in- 


220  BEECHY 

stead  to  a  small  French  restaurant  in  Duke  Street,  where 
they  were  almost  alone. 

Beechy  wore,  he  always  remembered,  a  'dark-green  coat 
and  skirt,  a  loose  white  silk  shirt  and  a  black  beaver  hat 
with  a  long  plume  in  it. 

He  also  never  forgot  how  hungry  she  was,  and  how 
much  she  ate. 

The  Signora,  portentously  stately,  feasted  daintily,  but 
the  singer  was  ravenous  and  ate  rapidly,  with  deep  draughts 
of  red  wine  and  water. 

At  first  he  plied  her  with  questions. 

Yes,  she  was  a  Roman;  yes,  Prince  Cavaleone  was  a  dis- 
tant relation;  yes  (with  mischief),  her  mother  was  h'Eng- 
lish.  Her  mother's  sister  had  married  a  dissenting  'draper 
in  Fulham.  No,  she  was  not  married.  She  was  twenty- 
one.  She  liked  London.  She  was  going  to  Italy  for  the 
summer.  Yes,  with  Signora  Scarpi 

Yes,  she  knew  Lady  Cossie  very  well.  Yes,  she  was 
going  to  Wychley  before  she  went  to  Italy. 

And  so  on. 

She  answered  all  his  questions,  but  she  was  obviously  so 
very  much  more  interested  in  her  buttered  eggs! 

And  the  Signora's  eye  was  sinister. 

When  they  got  out  of  his  motor  at  the  hotel,  Beechy,  to 
whom  time  never  meant  anything,  politely  invited  him  to 
come  up  to  her  sitting-room. 

Arrived  in  that  ornate  bower  of  which  she  was  plainly 
proud,  she  dismissed  the  Signora,  and  sat  down. 

"  I  am  sleepy,"  she  said,  yawning  as  a  dog  yawns,  all 
her  teeth  showing. 

"  I — will  go,"  he  retorted  stiffly,  and  she  sprang  up  in 
protestation. 


MEETS  LORD    CHARLES   CRESSAGE      221 

"  No,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that !  " 

He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  a  trifle  too  handsome 
many  people  thought,  for  his  nose  was  as  beautiful  as  the 
nose  of  Napoleon,  and  his  deep-set  blue  eyes  marvels  of 
compelling  tenderness.  He  was  forty  years  old,  and  what 
he  did  not  know  of  the  gentle  art  of  lady-killing  was  not 
worth  knowing. 

Yet  now,  for  once,  he  was  at  fault,  and  sat  quite  mute 
while  her  dark  eyes  frankly  and  kindly  studie'd  him. 

"What  a  pity  you  don't  sing,"  she  said  at  last  in  a 
thoughtful  voice. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  make — a — a  so  beautiful  Romeo," — which 
name  she  pronounced  correctly  in  the  accent  on  the  second 
syllable. 

"  I !  at  my  age."  His  laugh  was  a  little  bitter  and 
passionately  regretful.  "  Would  you  sing  Juliet  with 
me?" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Of  course, — with  joy, 
— if  you  had  a  voice." 

He  rose  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Some  day,"  he  said,  clearing  his  throat,  "  you  will  meet 
a  man  to  whose  Romeo  you  will  sing  Juliet — even  if  he  has 
no  voice." 

"Shall  I?" 

"Yes.     I  mean " 

She  burst  out  into  a  peal  of  perfectly  unaffected,  amused 
laughter. 

"You  mean.  I  know,  L'amore.  Chi  lo  sa?  Who  can 
tell?" 

Cressage  changed  colour. 

"  I — can  tell.     There  is — no  one — yet  ?  " 


222  BEECHY 

He  knew  that  he  was  making  an  ass  of  himself,  but  he 
could  not  help  it. 

At  his  age,  after  all  his  adventures,  he  had,  he  realised 
as  he  waited  for  her  answer,  fallen  in  love — in  love,  not  into 
one  of  that  much  miscalled  passion's  many  substitutes. 

"No  one— yet?" 

Beechy  shrunk  back  from  him.  His  feeling  was  too  in- 
tense to  be  disregarded  now. 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly.     "  Not  yet." 


.LORD  CHARLES'S  FIRST  STEP 

T^LEASE,  Minnie!" 
£~          "  Please  no,  my  good  Charles !  " 

Mrs.  Bridport  laughed  her  famous  little  laugh 
in  which  her  eyes  quite  disappeared  behind  a  network  of 
wrinkles.  She  was  the  greatest  tease  in  London. 

"Old  Cossie  does,  why  can't  you?" 

"  '  Old  Cossie,'  as  you  civilly  call  her,  is  the  daughter  of 
a  hundred  Earls.  My  father  is  a  brewer,  bless  him!  And 
besides,  why  should  I  help  you  out  in  your  nefarious  schemes  ? 
You  are  shameless,  Charles  Cressage." 

Lord  Charles,  who  was  looking  very  tired,  and  almost  ill 
after  the  fifth  sleepless  night  he  had  had  that  week, 
frowned. 

"  Don't  try  to  be  funny,"  he  said.  "  I  am  quite  in 
earnest.  I  am  much  interested  in  Cavaleone  and  I  want  to 
meet  her.  So  of  course  I  come  to  you.  To  whom  else 
should  I  come?" 

This  question  appeared  to  have  weight,  for  Mrs.  Brid- 
port's  face  changed  suddenly. 

"  Poor  old  boy !  But — I  have  nothing  in  the  world 
against  Kitty " 

"  Good  Lord,  neither  have  I !  " 

His  face  was  supremely  innocent  as  he  spoke. 

223 


224  BEECHY 

"Who  but  a  brute  could  have  anything  against  Kitty? 
And  what  has  she  to  do  with  my  request  to  you  ?  " 

She  burst  out  laughing  again,  putting  up  her  lorgnon  to 
look  at  him. 

"  Priceless,  marvellous  man,  what  -would  life  be  without 
you?  Well, — you  wish  me  to  invite  Cavaleone  here,  and 
to  invite  you  to  meet  her.  That  must  mean  that  you  are 
in  love  with  her.  Don't  deny  it." 

"Deny  it?  Of  course  I  don't.  Of  course  I'm  in  love 
with  her." 

She  watched  him  closely,  her  brown  eyes  reduced  to  mere 
black  specks  by  the  glasses  in  her  lorgnon. 

"What  about  Belle  Bromley?"  she  asked  at  length. 

Cressage  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Your  imagination 
does  you  credit,  Minnie.  You  ought  to  write  books." 

He  was  indubitably  that  hateful  thing,  a  lady-killer,  but 
she  reflected,  as  she  had  reflected  so  many  times  before,  he 
was  such  a  well-bred  one. 

Also,  he  was  perfectly  serious  in  his  loves,  each  one 
obliterating,  annulling,  the  very  existence  of  the  last  one. 
All  his  life  he  had  been  saying  in  high  sincerity,  "  I  have 
never  loved  before."  The  man  could  not  have  helped  fall- 
ing in  love  even  if  he  had  tried,  but  to  do  him  justice  he  did 
not  try.  And  never  once  by  a  thing,  a  smile,  or  even  that 
exaggerated  air  of  innocence  by  which  some  men  shrewdly 
betray  things,  had  he,  as  Minnie  Bridport  put  it,  "  given  a 
woman  away." 

"You  are  a  cumberer  of  the  earth,"  she  declared, 
dropping  her  lorgnon.  "  You  are  vain  and  foolish,  but  you 
are  not  chattering;  you  are  an  utterly  useless  member  of 
society;  you  are  in  debt,  you  gamble,  you  have  no  more 
morals  than  a  monkey " 


LORD    CHARLES'S   FIRST  STEP          225 

"  But  my  manners  are  better,"  he  put  in  politely,  "  and 
manners  make  the  man — I  never  heard  anyone  say  that 
morals  make  the  man." 

She  laughed.  "  Don't  interrupt.  You  are  useless  to 
your  country,  to  your  family,  to  your  friends,  but — you  are 
a  dear,  and  I'll  go  and  lunch  with  Lady  Cossie  this  very  day 
and  arrange  to  meet  this  girl.  There,  are  you  satisfied?" 

He  was,  and  having  then  got  his  own  way,  he  promptly 
rose  and  took  leave  of  her. 

Now  Mrs.  Tom  Bridport  was  a  thoroughly  good  little 
woman.  She  adored  her  big  Tom  and  her  twin  boys, 
little  Tom  and  David.  She  lived  in  the  utmost  content- 
ment in  her  tiny  box  of  a  house,  dressed  on  what  her 
friends  called  nothing  a  year — for  her  father,  the  brewer, 
possessed  the  distinction,  which  would  be  appreciated  by 
Mr.  Henry  James, — of  being  an  unsuccessful  brewer.  She 
was  kind  to  her  unattractive  suburban  relations,  to  her  serv- 
ants, to  her  husband's  favourite  cat,  whom  she  really  dis- 
liked. 

It  is  something  of  a  puzzle  why  this  essentially  good  little 
woman  did  as  she  did  about  Beechy. 

To  be  sure  Beechy  to  her  was  the  new  soprano,  Cava- 
leone.  And  a  new  Italian  soprano  is  assuredly  a  creature 
able  to  take  care  of  herself. 

And  yet — at  the  luncheon  at  Lady  Cossie's,  each  of  the 
girl's  twenty-one  years,  years  so  few,  so  innocent,  seemed 
to  look  out  of  her  eyes  at  her  new  friend,  and  Mrs.  Brid- 
port said  to  her  as  she  ate  a  very  wooden  pear :  "  You  are 
very  young,  Signorina." 

This  was  the  name  they  gave  her  at  that  time.  Her  sur- 
name is  long,  and  to  call  her  Signorina  Cavaleone  would,  it 
appeared  to  many  people,  have  taken  hours.  Whereas  no 


226  BEECHY 

one  in  even  a  partial  enjoyment  of  his  or  her  senses  could 
have  called  her  "  Miss." 

She  was  so  thoroughly,  triumphantly,  Southern! 

That  day  she  wore  a  little  coat  and  skirt  of  red  cloth 
and  a  small  black  hat. 

She  was  beautiful  and  she  knew  it.  Also  she  was  as 
young  as  little  Tommy  and  David,  in  other  ways  than  mere 
ways  of  age.  All  this  Mrs.  Bridport  saw,  and  yet  Mrs. 
Bridport  without  one  qualm  asked  her  to  dine  the  follow- 
ing Sunday,  adding,  "  A  great  admirer  of  yours  is  com- 
ing n  ' 

"Lady  Alice  Ashe?"  asked  Beechy,  smiling  delightedly. 

"No,— a  man." 

"Ah!     Mr.  Londale?" 

"  No.     Guess  again." 

"  The  Signorina  has  so  many  admirers,"  laughed  old 
Cossie  Bleck,  "  that  she  can't  guess  which  one  you 
mean !  " 

If  there  was  sarcasm  in  her  words  Beechy  did  not  see  it. 
She  merely  frowned  thoughtfully  and  guessed  again.  "  Mr. 
Wauchope  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bridport  raised  her  eyebrows.  "  No,  but — do  you 
know  Lex?  I'll  ask  him  to  dine,  too.  He's  a  great  pal  of 
mine " 

Beechy  went  on  solemnly,  naming  those  whom  she  be- 
lieved to  be  her  admirers,  and  at  last,  rather  shyly,  she  sug- 
gested Cressage. 

"  Right !  Oh,  but  tremendously,  he  admires  you.  Isn't 
he  charming  ?  " 

"  Very.     His  eyes — make  one  stop  talking,"  she  returned. 

Lady  Cossie  clapped  her  hands.  "  Good !  What  a 
pretty  speech.  'Make  one  stop  talking,'  do  they?  Ah, 


LORD    CHARLES'S   FIRST   STEP          227 

my  dear,  beware  of  Charles  Cressage,"  she  added,  more 
gently,  her  old  eyes  less  shrewd  than  usual. 

"Why?"  asked  the  girl. 

"  Because  he  is  so  fascinating,  child !  " 

"  But — I  like  fascinating  people." 

The  two  elder  women  exchanged  a  glance.  They  both 
believed  in  her  with  the  absolute  belief  that  real  innocence 
usually  meets.  And  yet  neither  of  them  dreamt  of  warning 
her  more  seriously  against  the  man. 

He  was  one  of  themselves,  and  she  was  an  outsider,  an 
opera-singer. 

Beechy  walked  home  to  her  hotel  where  a  small  luncheon 
was  ready  for  her.  She  had  learned  by  this  time  to  put  no 
faith  in  Lady  Cossie's  powers  of  catering  to  her  vigorous 
young  appetite. 

She  liked  Mrs.  Bridport,  and  she  was  glad  to  be  dining 
with  her  on  Sunday.  She  was  also  glad  that  Lord  Charles 
was  to  be  there. 

While  she  was  eating  her  macaroni  in  her  little  sitting- 
room  Henry  Pyecraft  came  in. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him  for  over  a  month, 
and  she  embraced  him  warmly. 

"  Dear  Uncle  'Enry,"  she  cried,  holding  him  off  at  arm's 
length  and  then  kissing  him  again,  "I  am  glad  to  see  you! 
'Ow  are  you  and  'ow  is  Aunt  Augusta?  " 

Mr.  Pyecraft  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  quite  well,"  he  said,  nervously.  "  That 
is  to  say,  I  'aven't  mentioned  to  'er  that  I  was  coming  to  see 
you  to-day.  The  fact  is,  Beechy,  you  'ave  annoyed  your 
Aunt.  Seriously  annoyed  'er." 

"  lo  ?  Ma  come,  piccolo  zio  caro  ?  "  she  asked  in  sur- 
prise. 


228  BEECHY 

"  By — well,  it's  nine  weeks  since  you've  been  to  Ful- 
ham •" 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing.  "  But  Uncle  'Enry — the  last 
time  I  came  she  said  she  wish-a  never  see  me  again!  She 
said  I  disgrrrrace  the  family." 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  I  know.  But  you  must  remember, 
she's  very  nervous,  Augusta  is,  an' — and  the  papers  'ave 
spoken  so  well  of  you " 

The  good  man  broke  off,  embarrassed,  and  turned  his  hat 
anxiously  in  his  hands. 

"You  see,  Beechy,  them  articles  in  the  papers " 

Beechy  wiped  her  plate  with  a  bit  of  bread. 

"  I  see,  Uncle  'Enry.  I  quite  see."  She  was  silent  for  a 
moment  repressing  the  string  of  sarcastic  nonsense  that 
rushed  into  her  mind.  Then  she  added,  "  Shall  I  come 
Sunday  for  dinner?" 

Poor  Pyecraft  was  radiant. 

He  had  not  ventured  to  hope  for  such  a  generous  disre- 
garding of  his  wife's  remarks  on  the  occasion  of  Beechy's 
last  visit,  and  he  was  very  grateful  to  her. 

He  did  not  know  that  kindness  being  as  natural  to  her 
as  breathing,  nothing  in  the  world  was  easier  to  her  than 
just  such  generosity. 

Well  pleased  he  went  his  way,  and  Beechy,  who  was 
singing  that  night,  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A    SMALL  DINNER 

THE  dinner  at  Mrs.  Bridport's  was  small.  She  and 
her  husband  and  Beechy  and  Cressage  were  four, 
and  there  were  besides  Alexis  Wauchope,  the  critic, 
and  a  girl  named  West  whose  greatest  claims  to  distinction 
seemed  to  be  that  she  smoked  more  cigarettes  than  any 
woman  in  town,  and  Lex  Wauchope  was  supposed  to  like 
her. 

Thus  Beechy  and  Cressage  were  opposite  each  other  at 
the  pretty  round  table,  while  Little  Lex  sat  between  his 
hostess  and  the  young  singer. 

A  large,  flat  bowl  of  pink  sweet-peas  was  the  only  table 
decoration,  so  Cressage  had  an  uninterrupted  view  of 
Beechy.  And  he  made  the  most  of  it. 

Beechy  herself,  tired  after  a  dull  day  in  Fulham,  was 
a  little  pale  and  silent,  but  to  a  man  as  thoroughly  in  love 
as  Cressage  was,  every  mood  has  its  charms,  and  he  felt  a 
distinct  sensation  of  relief  in  realising  that  she  was  not  so 
hungry  as  usual. 

Tom  Bridport,  a  burly  man  with  a  very  gentle  voice, 
liked  the  girl,  and  produced  for  her  benefit  a  few  Italian 
words,  remnants  of  a  long-ago  winter  in  Rome. 

"Ah,  Roma,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Sono  Romana  di  Roma,  io — a  Roman  of  Rome!" 

"  Funny  how  they  still  say  that,"  observed  Wauchope  to 
Mrs.  Bridport.  "  In  the  earliest  days  of  the  Republic  the 

229 


230  BEECHY 

citizens  of  Rome  used  it  to  distinguish  themselves  from 
the  Romans  of  the  Provinces.  Isn't  she  beautiful  ? "  he 
added. 

A  small  'delicately  framed  man,  Lex  Wauchope,  with  a 
mild  face  lighted  by  most  romantically  beautiful  grey  eyes. 

He  went  everywhere,  knew  everybody  and  everybody's 
history,  but  while  his  goings  and  comings  were  open  and 
his  tongue  ready  to  answer  any  question,  no  one  really 
knew  anything  about  himself. 

He  was  unmarried  and  so  far  as  anyone  knew  had  never 
had  a  love-affair;  and  this  remarkable  fact  lent  to  him  a 
certain  piquancy,  for  it  was  about  love  that  he  wrote  his 
most  whimsical,  charming,  poetic  stuff.  He  published  little, 
but  his  every  printed  article  constituted  a  literary  event,  and 
his  sudden  revelations,  always  strictly  correct,  regarding 
the  loves  of  great  men  and  women  of  the  past,  were  re- 
garded by  senior  historians  as  worthy  of  reference  in  their 
most  solemn  works. 

For  what  Lex  wrote  about  he  knew.  He  wrote  lightly, 
sometimes  jestingly,  always  with  a  curious  gracefulness,  but 
his  facts  were  concrete  things,  his  very  assumptions  based  on 
firm  reasons. 

When  he  met  Beechy  he  bowed  very  low,  his  neat  little 
feet  close  together  in  a  dancing-school  attitude. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  in  perfect  French,  "  I  feel  my- 
self honoured." 

Beechy's  French  was  good  as  to  quality,  but  nothing  to 
boast  about  in  quantity. 

"  Merci,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  smiling  down  into  his  eyes. 
And  they  were  friends. 

Afterwards,  Wauchope  told  the  story  of  the  evening  to 
his  one  confidante,  his  mother. 


A   SMALL  DINNER  231 

"  She  wore,"  he  said,  "  a  green  frock.  A  frock  as  green 
as  an  Alpine  meadow  in  late  April.  The  greenest  frock 
I  ever  saw.  And  her  dark  hair  was  plaited  and  twisted 
round  her  head  over  her  ears — such  pretty  ears,  little  and 
pink.  And  she  wore,  of  course,  no  gloves,  which  made 
her,  in  her  summer-coloured  frock,  look  like  a  vigorous 
nymph.  All  alert  she  was,  with  her  blue  eyes  wide  and 
awake,  and  her  red-velvet  mouth,  like  the  leaves  of  a  fine 
Jacqueminot  rose,  a  trifle  open  as  she  looked  round.  I 
stood  near  her.  She  thought  me  a  dear  little  man.  '  Aren't 
they  wonderful  ? '  she  asked  me,  in  slow  French.  She 
thought  I  was  French.  'Who?'  I  asked.  '  All  of  them — 
these  beautiful  Englishmen.' 

"  It  was  delightful.  Dear  old  England,  to  have  her  men 
called  beautiful  by  a  Latin  maid  in  a  grass-green  frock. 

"  I  asked  her  if  she  admired  Cressage,  who  had  just 
come  in,  looking  so  damned  clean, — and  she  said  quite 
simply,  '  Oh,  but  he  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all.' ' 

This  was  the  origin  of  Lex's  delightful  and  witty  baiting 
of  Charles  Cressage.  It  began  that  evening  and  lasted 
until  no  one  dared  mention  Beechy  to  Cressage  or  Cressage 
to  Beechy. 

It  was  quite  plain  to  everyone  that  Lord  Charles  was 
head  over  ears  in  love.  He  made  not  the  slightest  effort 
to  conceal  the  fact,  either  then  or  later.  Which  shows  a 
certain  wisdom,  for  whereas  real  concealment  would  have 
been  impossible  to  him,  he  might  easily  have  tried,  thus 
falling  into  ridicule. 

But  Cressage  was  never  ridiculous. 

After  dinner  Beechy  sang,  which  she  of  course  should 
not  have  done,  but  she  was  so  happy,  and  full  of  the  joy 
of  living,  that  she  had  to  express  her  feelings. 


232  BEECHY 

Standing  there  by  the  piano,  her  hands  clasped  loosely 
before  her,  she  made  a  picture  none  of  them  ever  forgot. 
Wauchope  accompanied  her,  a  pair  of  huge  round  spectacles 
perched  on  his  nose. 

She  sang  a  French  song  about  May  and  love,  that  she 
had  just  learned,  a  little  thing  full  of  swing  and  melody. 
Then  she  sang  the  willow  song  from  "  Othello,"  saddest  of 
ditties: 

"  Povera   Barbara." 

Her  voice  was  beautifully  tender,  her  eyes  half  shut  as  she 
sang: 

"  Sake, — Sake, — Willow,    willow, 
Alas,  poor  Barbara." 

The  contrast  between  the  two  songs  was  dramatically 
great,  which  she  of  course  knew. 

When  she  finished,  Mrs.  Bridport  came  and  thanked 
her,  and  the  girl,  who  smoked  cigarettes,  opened  her  enam- 
elled case  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"  Look,"  whispered  Wauchope  to  Beechy,  "  at  the  Most 
Beautiful  of  All." 

Without  laughing  she  turned  towards  Cressage,  who  sat 
staring  over  his  clasped  hands  at  the  carpet. 

The  light  falling  on  his  smooth  dark  head  was  almost 
dazzling,  and  that  same  glossy  smoothness  had  a  strange 
charm  for  Beechy;  the  charm  of  the  absolutely  new.  The 
heads  she  had  known  were  either  shaggy  or  ill-kempt,  or 
smooth  and  heavy  with  oil,  and  these  well-brushed  English 
heads  were  very  unlike  those  of  either  type. 

The  breadth  of  his  shoulders  too,  attracted  her  and  when, 
feeling  her  gaze,  he  looked  up  and  met  her  eyes  with  his 


'A   SMALL  DINNER  233 

sombre  ones,  Wauchope  declares  she  started  and  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat. 

However  it  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  her  effervescing 
joyfulness  was  for  that  evening  gone  at  that  moment. 

She  went  and  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Bridport  and  talked 
quietly  to  her  for  a  long  time. 

Miss  West,  the  cigarette-girl,  smoked  in  silence,  and  Tom 
Bridport  and  Cressage  discussed  the  new  bill. 

It  was  a  charming  room,  and  Beechy  was  much  inter- 
ested in  it.  There  were  little  tables  covered  with  flowers, 
and  many  scraps  of  old  embroidery  and  brocade. 

"  This,"  Beechy  declared,  her  hand  on  a  square  of  gold 
stuff,  "  came  out  of  a  church !  "  She  looked  a  little  hor- 
rified, and  everyone  laughed. 

"  Do  you  think  it  wrong  of  me  to  have  it?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Bridport. 

"  No — but — I  should  wish  to  kneel  if  I  were  much  in 
a  room  with  church  embroideries.  I  should  be  found  pray- 
ing instead  of — making  tea,  for  instance."  She  was  quite 
serious. 

"  Do  you  like  church  ? "  asked  Miss  West,  suddenly. 

Beechy  looked  at  her.     "  But  of  course." 

After  a  moment  she  rose  and  walked  about,  looking  at 
the  things  she  so  admired. 

Suddenly  she  held  up  her  ha:..'-  towards  a  picture  in  a 
corner. 

"  It  is  Rome,  &  Roma ! "  she  burst  out  in  Italian,  "  la 
mia  Roma  cara!  Ecco  San  Pietro — Castel  San  Giorgio — 
oh  bello,  bello!" 

She  turned,  flushed  with  delight,  her  big  dimple  deep. 

Cressage  came  to  her.  "  Ah  yes, — a  charmin'  sketch,"  he 
said.  "  I  have — a  lot  of  pictures  of  Rome,  Signorina.  Will 


234  BEECHY 

you  come  to  see  them  to-morrow?  I  must  be  off  now. 
Have  to  go  to  the  House,"  he  explained  to  Mrs.  Bridport. 

She  followed  him  to  the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Do  be  careful,  Charles,"  she  said,  her  hand  in  his  arm. 

"  Careful  ?  "     He  looked  vaguely  at  her. 

"  Yes.  You — you  will  make  a  fool  of  yourself  if  you 
are  not  careful " 

His  face  hardened  and  he  looked  down,  his  nose  towards 
her.  "What  do  you  mean,  Minnie?"  he  asked. 

But  Minnie  Bridport  was  not  afraid  of  him. 

"  I  mean — well,  anyone  can  see  the  state  of  mind  you 
are  in — do  be  careful " 

Her  ugly,  kind  little  face  was  full  of  anxiety,  and  he 
relented. 

"  Well — they  may  see  all  they  like,  but — no  one  but  you 
must  dare  mention  it  to  me." 

"But — what  do  you  mean  to  do?"  she  urged.  "She 
seems  a — a  nice  girl." 

Cressage  put  his  hand  to  his  moustache.  The  hand 
trembled.  "  Yes.  She  is  a — a  nice  girl.  As  to  what  I  mean 
— I  don't  know  any  more  than  you  do,  what  I  mean " 

He  went  without  finishing  his  sentence,  and  she  returned 
slowly  to  her  fireside,  where  Beechy  was  now  keeping  her 
husband  and  Lex  Wauchope  in  a  roar  of  laughter  by  a 
story  about  an  adventure  she  had  had  when  she  first  came 
to  England,  and  was  trying  to  find  the  National  Museum. 

When  Mrs.  Bridport's  guests  had  gone  she  and  her  hus- 
band sat  by  the  fire  for  some  time. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  "  I  am  troubled." 

"'Bout  what,  dear?" 

"About  Charles  and — that  girl." 

"Charles  Cressage?" 


A   SMALL  DINNER  235 

"  Of  course.    Do  I  ever  worry  about  any  other  Charles?" 

The  big  man  chuckled  and  rubbed  his  pipe  lovingly. 

"  No,  I  can't  say  you  do,  my  dear.  Bad,  old  Charles — 
nearly  off  his  head,  ain't  he?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, — it  ain't  the  first  time,  Min.  He'll  get  over 
it." 

And  Mrs.  Bridport,  who  as  a  good  kind  woman  should 
have  been  troubled  about  Beechy,  did  not  give  the  girl  a 
thought.  All  her  anxiety  was  for  that  experienced  old 
sinner,  Charles  Cressage. 

"  I  know,  I  know  it  isn't  the  first  time,"  she  agreed, 
"  but — somehow — he  looked  different  to-night." 

Bridport  chuckled. 

"  He  always  does  '  look  different.'  He  has  the  most 
damnably  tragic  face,  that  chap — like  St.  Sebastian  or  one 
of  those  fellows.  Oh,  blow  Cressage,  and  get  me  a  whisky 
and  soda,  like  a  good  girl." 

Meantime  Beechy,  in  a  dressing-gown,  was  telling  her 
good  Scarpia  about  the  evening. 

"  Lord  Charles  Cressage — he  was  there,"  she  said,  un- 
pinning her  hair.  "  He  makes  eyes  at  me." 

"  Per  Bacco,"  grunted  the  old  woman,  "  they  all  do 
that." 

Beechy  laughed. 

"  It  is  the  fashion  here,  and  I  like  it.  But  this  one — he 
is  very  beautiful,  and  he  is  a  most  excellent  actor,"  she 
added,  seriously,  "  one  would  think  him  dying  of  love!  " 

She  rose,  and  going  to  a  table,  looked  over  some  notes 
that  had  come  during  her  absence. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  well  pleased,  "  here  is  one  from 
Cricket!" 


CHAPTER   XXX 
ROMAN    SKETCHES 

A   MAN  from  Knoedler's,  my  Lord " 
Lord  Charles  looked  up.    "  Tell  him  to  come  in, 
Burns." 

"Very  good,  my  Lord." 

The  room,  -a  large  artistically  furnished  sitting-room  in 
St.  James,  was  littered  with  open  parcels,  all  of  them  rec- 
tangular in  shape,  and  all  of  them  flat.  Obviously  pic- 
tures. 

Knoedler's  man,  as  he  put  down  his  parcel,  looked 
around  in  surprise. 

"  Good  many  pictures  already,  my  Lord,"  he  ventured. 

Cressage  nodded.     "  Yes.     What  are  yours  ?  " 

"  Coliseum  by  moon " 

"  Have  two  Coliseums  already;  don't  want  that.  What 
else?" 

"  A  view  of  the  Campagna  near  the  Baths  of  Caracalla, 
and  a  view  of  the  city  from  the  Pincio,  my  Lord." 

"  I  have  the  city  from  the  Pincio.  Let's  see  the  Cam- 
pagna one." 

He  brought  the  picture  at  once.  Then — "  I  telephoned 
your  people  I  wanted  someone  to  hang  pictures  for  me  at 
once." 

"  Yes,  my  Lord.     I  can  stay  now,  if  you  wish." 

His  lordship  did  wish. 

"Take   down   all   the  other  pictures  except   those   two 

236 


ROMAN  SKETCHES  237 

portraits  and  the  Constable,  and  get  all  these  Roman  pic- 
tures up  as  soon  as  you  can,  please." 

"  Very  good,  my  Lord." 

Cressage  went  out,  and  Mr.  Archibald  Guthrie  Brown 
of  Knoedler's  set  to  work. 

"  Well  I'll  be  damned,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  coat, 
"  whatever  anyone  wants  with  all  these  water-colours — 
and  rotten  bad  that  one  of  ours  is,  too!  " 

But  the  sketches  stood  out  charmingly  on  the  dark  green 
walls,  and  when,  at  five  o'clock,  Beechy  and  the  Signora 
appeared,  Beechy's  face,  as  she  gazed  round  the  room,  was 
reward  enough  for  her  host. 

"Oh,  Rome!     Then  you,  too,  love  it?" 

To  say  the  word  was  a  luxury  to  the  smitten  man. 

"Love  it?      Love — it?     Indeed  I  do,"  he  said  fervently. 

He  was  very  pale  in  his  dark  blue  clothes,  the  coat  of 
which  he  had  starred  with  a  white  carnation. 

The  Signora  looked  at  him  shrewdly,  noticing  that  his 
eyes  never  left  Beechy.  There  was  little  that  her  small 
black  eyes  did  not  see. 

"  And  you  live  here,"  the  girl  said  to  Cressage,  "  sur- 
rounded by  pictures  of  Rome!" 

"  I  live — yes,  surrounded  by  pictures "  he  broke  off 

short. 

He  was  afraid  of  frightening  her,  and  this,  too,  the 
Signora  saw. 

He  gave  them  tea,  he  showed  them  books,  prints,  and 
his  collection  of  knives. 

Two  miniatures  near  his  writing-table  he  unhooked  and 
gave  to  her.  "  My  father  and  mother,"  he  said. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  pleasure.  "  Oh,  the  'dear  little 
tings! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Never  I  see  so  beautiful  babies!  " 


238  BEECHY 

He  stood  watching  her,  his  arms  folded,  and  the  Signora 
watched  him. 

"  That  child  with  the  pony,  there  to  your  left,  is  my 
brother,  Bridgewater.  I — I  wish  you  might  see  Bridge- 
water  Hall." 

"Your  house?"  she  asked. 

"  No, — I  only  wish  it  were.  I  am  only  a  third  son. 
But  I  was  born  there." 

It  was  plain  that  he  loved  the  place,  and  Beechy  smiled 
at  him.  "  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  she  said.  "  I  like 
beautiful  houses.  I  am  going  to  Wychley  at  Vitsuntide. 
You  have  been  there  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  a  dear  little  place,"  he  answered.  "  Lady 
Cossie  Bleck  is  a  sort  of  cousin  of  mine.  It  will  be  dull, 
her  party." 

"  Then  I'll  not  stay,"  returned  Beechy,  simply. 

He  laughed,  showing  white  teeth  under  his  dark  mous- 
tache. 

"  I'll  ask  her  to  invite  me  down,  if  you  think  I  could 
help  prevent  you  from  being  bored." 

"  Oh,  yes,  please.  I — when  I  am  lonely  I  am  so  miser- 
able, and  I  hate  the  country." 

Women  who  hate  the  country  were  unadmirable  to  him, 
but  in  Beechy  the  characteristic  was  as  lovely  as  every- 
thing else. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are,"  he  said,  softly,  handing  her 
yet  another  miniature, 

"Am  I  really?" 

"You  know  it." 

She  smiled.  "Ah,  this  is  you.  You  were  a  dear  little 
boy,"  she  said.  "  Che  bella  famiglla!  " 

They  were  a  handsome  family,  the  Cressages,  and  Charles 
was  the  handsomest  of  all. 


ROMAN   SKETCHES  239 

He  smiled  absently. 

"  Come  and  see  my — come  in  here,"  he  said,  suddenly, 
drawing  her  towards  a  curtained  door. 

She  went  willingly  enough,  and  found  herself  in  a  tiny 
conservatory  full  of  orchids. 

"How  beautiful!" 

"  Signorina  Cavaleone,"  he  said  in  excellent  Italian,  "  will 
you  shake  hands  with  me  ?  " 

Beechy  stared,  crimson  with  delight,  her  blue  eyes  al- 
most black.  "  You  speak  Italian,"  she  cried,  "  why  did . 
you  not  tell  me  before?" 

"Because — I — didn't  dare.  I — I  feared  I  might  say 
things  you  would  not  like — let  me  take  your  hand  for  a 
moment." 

She  held  out  both  her  hands.  "  Ma  si,  ma  si," — she  mur- 
mured, moved  by  his  emotion.  "  How  wonderful  that  you 
should  speak  Italian." 

Cressage  held  her  hands  close  in  his  for  a  moment  and 
then  pressed  them  hard  against  his  lips. 

She  was  far  too  Southern  in  nature  to  remain  cool  in 
the  presence  of  so  much  passion. 

She  paled  and  drew  away  from  him. 

"  Please,"  she  said  in  Italian,  "  Oh,  I  beg  you " 

"  Beatrice — I — surely  you  see  that " 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  Signora  Scarpia  came 
into  the  conservatory. 

Cressage  was  very  angry  with  her,  and  showed  it,  but 
the  good  woman  was  quite  undaunted. 

"  I  think  we  must  go  now,  Bici,"  she  said  quietly,  with 
dignity,  and  Beechy  followed  her  in  undemurring  obedi- 
ence. 

Cressage,  who  had  all  of  the  family  temper,  bit  his  lip 
to  keep  from  expressing  his  annoyance. 


240  BEECHY 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Beechy,  kissing  her  hand  in 
Italian  fashion,  "  I  shall  see  you  soon." 

To  the  Signora  he  said  stiffly,  "  Addio,  Signora." 

When  the  two  women  had  reached  their  carriage,  the 
Scarpia  said  gently,  "  Bici  cara,  you  must  be  careful.  He 
is  dangerous,  that  man." 

Beechy  laughed.  "  Perhaps.  I  like  them  dangerous, 
you  know." 

During  the  days  intervening  between  the  visit  to  Cres- 
sage's  rooms  and  the  Whitsun  holidays,  Beechy  saw  Cres- 
sage  often. 

He  came  twice  to  her  dressing-room;  he  appeared  at 
Lady  Cossie's  and  at  Mrs.  Bridport's;  he  bought  a  roll  of 
purple  tweed  from  her  at  Stafford  House,  and  once  he 
motored  her  and  Mrs.  Bridport  to  Ranelagh  for  luncheon. 

Beechy  was  happy  with  him,  although  something  about 
him  made  her  feel  shy. 

He  had  a  way  of  coming  up  to  her  suddenly  in  a  crowd 
and  murmuring  to  her  in  Italian.  "  I  adore  you,"  he 
would  say,  or  "  I  love  you,  Beatrice." 

She  could  never  recall  the  first  time  he  told  her  he 
loved  her.  She  seemed  to  have  known  it  always.  It  came 
to  her  without  any  sense  of  offence,  but  with  a  certain 
mingling  of  fear,  shyness,  and  joy. 

It  was  May,  and  she  was  twenty-one. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
LORD    CHARLES    MAKES    LOVB 

WCHLEY,  Lady  Cossie  Bleck's  little  country 
louse,  was  near  Box  Hill.  It  was  a  one-story 
iiouse,  and  its  garden  was  delightful. 

Lady  Cossie,  being  poor,  let  the  place  for  the  whole  year 
to  one  of  her  nephews,  on  the  condition  that  at  Whitsun- 
tide he  must  clear  out  for  four  weeks,  when  the  old  lady 
came  herself  to  enjoy  the  spring  flowers. 

This  year  Lady  Cossie  was  not  well,  so  her  party  was 
very  small,  consisting  of  an  orphaned  Eton  boy,  a  great- 
nephew  named  Chris  Bidfield^  his  sister,  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
and  Beechy. 

"  I  feel  old,  this  year,"  Lady  Cossie  explained  to  Beechy, 
"  next  year  I'll  be  young  again,  but  now  I  am  old.  So  I 
am  not  having  a  real  party.  But  Lady  Harrowstone  has 
her  houseful  as  usual,  and  no  doubt  there  will  be  some 
gaiety  for  you." 

Beechy,  to  her  surprise,  felt  rather  tired  herself  and 
was  glad  enough  for  a  few  days  quiet  in  the  little  place. 

The  spring  was  a  late  one,  so  the  May  trees  were  still 
lovely  and  narcissi  and  jonquils  filled  the  grass  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way,  while  crimson  ramblers  on  the  north  end 
of  the  house  were  already  bursting  into  bloom. 

Beechy  and  Chris  Bidfield  became  fast  friends  at  once. 
He  was  a  nice,  ugly  little  boy  with  large  red  ears  and  a 

241 


242  BEECHY 

confiding  heart,  and  he  loved  Beechy  very  much.  The  two 
walked  together,  her  arm  over  his  shoulders,  for  he  had 
the  courage  of  his  convictions,  and  scorned  to  tell  her  that 
fellows  of  his  age  didn't  usually  do  such  babyish  things. 
When  she  sang,  he  listened  open-mouthed.  Helen,  his  sis- 
ter, was  busy  with  a  secret  engagement  with  the  chauffeur  of 
one  of  her  uncles  now  abroad,  so  she  was  as  unobtrusive  as 
one  could  wish.  Lady  Cossie,  looking  indeed  very  feeble  in 
her  incongruous  frocks,  used  to  sit  in  the  little  arbour  in 
the  garden  and  watch  the  flowers  grow. 

Two  days  passed  very  quietly.  Then,  the  evening  of  the 
second  day,  as  Beechy  was  dressing  for  dinner,  she  heard 
from  the  hall  a  voice  that  made  her  drop  a  pin  she  was 
putting  into  her  hair.  Cressagel 

He  was  here,  he  would  make  love  to  her,  and  she  told 
herself  with  Southern  simplicity  she  wanted  to  love  and 
to  be  loved. 

Was  she  to  love  this  magnificent  Englishman? 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  girl  felt  timid  as  she 
went  into  the  dining-room,  a  little  late  for  fear  of  finding 
Cressage  alone.  He  was  standing  by  a  tall  pink-draped 
lamp,  bending  down  while  Lady  Cossie  drew  the  stem  of 
a  rose  through  his  buttonhole. 

"  Here  she  is,"  the  quick-eared  old  woman  declared,  and 
holding  on  to  his  coat  so  that  he  could  not,  without  actual 
rudeness,  move.  In  the  lamplight  his  deep  flush  was  plainly 
visible  to  her. 

"  Caught,"  cried  Lady  Cossie — "  I  mean  you  catch 
Charles  making  love  to  me !  " 

Beechy  laughed.  She  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  so  happy 
to  feel  her  hand  in  his  that  she  laughed  on  an'd  on.  Lady 
Cossie  was  delighted.  "  He  has  come,"  she  explained,  half 


LORD    CHARLES  MAKES  LOVE         243 

maliciously,  "  to  stay  till  Monday.  I  did  not  invite  him 
and  I  don't  want  him,  but  here  he  is." 

Cressage,  too,  laughed,  and  Chris  Bidfield  coming  in  at 
that  moment  from  the  garden,  where  he  had  been  making 
a  nosegay  for  Beechy,  joined  in  merrily. 

"  I  say,"  asked  the  boy,  "  what  are  we  all  laughing 
for?" 

Beechy  put  his  flowers  in  the  lace  at  her  breast,  and 
then  laid  her  arm  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Because — because  it  is  spring,  and  the  garden  is  full 
of  flowers,  and  the  room  is  like  a  dream-room,  and  Lady 
Cossie  is  good  to  us,  and — because  Lord  Charles  has 
come!" 

Her  Italian  accent  grew  stronger  as  she  hurried  on  to 
her  audacious  conclusion,  and  after  a  pause  she  again  held 
out  her  hand  to  Cressage. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  added  in  her  own  tongue. 

His  eyes  closed  for  a  second. 

She  wore  white  and  looked  more  like  other  girls  he  knew, 
for  the  moment,  but  she  looked  so  beautiful,  so  sweet,  so 
absolutely  desirable  and  lovable  that  he  could  not  answer 
at  once. 

"  Bravo,"  cried  their  old  hostess,  ironically,  "  a  modest 
creature  like  Charles  Cressage  needs  a  little  encourage- 
ment, my  dear ! " 

"  Don't  chaff,  Cousin  Cossie,"  he  said,  gently,  his  beauti- 
ful eyes  on  hers.  "  Don't — spoil  things." 

And  the  old  woman  was  silent. 

There  was  only  the  one  lamp  lit  in  the  long,  low,  faded 
room.  The  western  windows,  diamorid-paned,  were  still 
glowing  from  the  sunset,  and  from  an  open  door  the  light 
from  the  hall  flowed  in  over  the  ancient  polished  floor, 


244  BEECHY 

ending  where  the  gilded  claw-foot  of  a  chintz-petticoated 
sofa  blazed  back  at  it. 

There  were  bowls  of  fresh  flowers  standing  about,  and 
mingled  with  their  scent  was  the  faded  fragrance  of  old 
preserved  rose  leaves  that  stood  on  the  tables  in  white  jars 
with  perforated  tops. 

There  were  cabinets  filled  with  old  family  treasures, 
there  were  oval  framed  portraits  of  dead  and  gone  Blecks, 
and  Eustaces  (Lady  Cossie's  mother,  and  Charles  Cres- 
sage's  grandmother  had  been  Eustaces  and  cousins)  hung 
on  the  faded  walls,  and  the  curtains  were  tied  back  with 
broad  faded-blue  ribbons. 

Such  a  room  as  cannot  be  made,  but  must  grow  with 
time  and  care  and  long  habitation. 

To  Beechy,  who  loved  bright  colours  and  gilding,  the 
room  was  not  beautiful,  but  its  poetry  she  felt  strongly, 
and  she  felt  as  she  sat  in  it  that  she  was  learning.  Roger 
Eustace,  the  man  who  lived  in  the  house,  had  a  good 
cook,  so  Beechy  sat  down  to  'dinner  feeling  thoroughly 
happy. 

Poor  old  Lady  Cossie  enjoyed  it,  too,  although  she  re- 
sented fate,  whose  cruelty  forced  her  to  let  the  house. 

"  All  this  is  mine,"  she  said  mournfully  to  Cressage, 
"  these  dear  old  spoons  and  forks  and  that  duck  of  a  George 
II  teapot  on  the  sideboard.  All  mine!  I  wanted  to  take 
them  to  town,  of  course,  but  that  brute  of  a  Roger  offered 
me  so  much  for  the  use  of  them  that  I  couldn't  resist! " 

Cressage  nodded.  "  I  know.  My  grandfather  was  the 
only  one  with  sense  enough  to  marry  money.  He  hated 
my  grandmother,  too,  didn't  he?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  The  Cressage  men  are  all  abominable  hus- 
bands— and  very  bad  lovers." 


245 

Cressage  bit  his  lip.     He  was  angry. 

Beechy,  however,  was  chattering  with  Chris,  and  had 
not  heard. 

When  dinner  was  over  Beechy  said  to  Cressage :  "  Will 
you  come  out  and  see  the  flowers,  Lord  Charles?  " 

He  hesitated,  looking  at  Lady  Cossie. 

"  Oh,  Lady  Cossie  does  not  mind,"  she  added  hastily, 
"  she  has  to  rest  a  little  after  dinner  before  Chris  and  I 
have  our  concert,  don't  you,  Lady  Cossie?  " 

The  old  woman  nodded.  "  In  plain  English,  Charles,  I 
like  a  ten  minutes'  sleep!  Frankness,  thy  name  is  Cas- 
sandra Bleck ! " 

Beechy  fetched  her  a  small  pillow  from  the  sofa  and 
when  she  was  comfortably  settled  in  her  chair  Beechy  led 
the  way  into  the  garden. 

Charles  Cressage  was  forty  years  old.  He  had  run  the 
gamut  of  most  sentiments,  he  had  made  love  to  heaven 
knows  how  many  women,  of  how  many  different  kinds. 

He  had  made  love  in  houses,  in  gardens,  in  boats  of  dif- 
ferent kinds,  in  steamers,  in  motors,  once,  even,  in  Paris, 
in  a  captive  balloon,  once,  even,  in  church.  But  as  he 
stepped  out  that  evening  into  the  old-fashioned  garden  with 
Beechy  he  felt  as  shy  and  doubtful  as  a  boy.  His  assur- 
ance was  gone,  his  confidence  in  his  own  skill  in  the  game, 
for  now  it  was  no  game,  but  bitter  earnest. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Beechy  asked  him. 

He  looked  down  at  her,  into  the  blue  eyes  of  her. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  stammering  a  little,  "  I — I  love 
you." 

His  face  was  white  and  as  he  stopped  speaking  he  caught 
his  lower  lip  with  his  teeth  to  stop  its  trembling. 

They  stood  close  to  the  window,  rather  far  apart,  in  the 


246  BEECHY 

yellow  moonlight.  He  was  terribly  shaken,  and  looked, 
though  pale,  younger  than  she  had  ever  seen  him. 

The  moonlight  and  also  possibly  the  nature  of  his  feel- 
ings obliterated  for  the  time  the  tell-tale  lines  in  his  face. 

"  Beatrice — I — my  God,  what  can  I  say  to  make  you 
see  what  I  mean  ?  "  he  cried,  running  his  hand  through  his 
smooth  hair  in  a  way  that  brought  a  lock  of  it  over  his 
brow  and  gave  him  a  distraught  look. 

"  I — this  is  Saturday,  and  since  Wednesday,  when  I  last 
saw  you,  I — I  have  been  nearly  mad.  I  literally  haven't 
known  what  I  have  been  doing.  This — this — can't  go  on." 

Beechy  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Come,"  she  said, 
"  let  us  walk  down  to  the  sun-dial.  Lady  Cossie  might 
see — your  face." 

He  obeyed  in  silence,  and  when  they  had  reached  the 
little  circular  grass  plot  where  round  the  foot  of  the  old 
stone  sun-dial,  pink  and  white  wall-flowers  were  planted, 
she  went  on  quietly. 

"  You  are  excited,"  she  said  in  her  pretty  English,  "  Ver' 
much.  But  why?  I  like  you  to  love  me;  I  like  you  far 
better  zan  any  one  h'else." 

There  was  a  carved  stone  bench  in  the  curve  of  the 
hedge  just  there,  and  he  led  her  to  it,  kneeling  in  front 
of  it  when  she  had  sat  down. 

"  Oh,  Beatrice,  Beatrice,"  he  cried,  putting  his  arms 
in  her  lap  and  his  face  in  them,  "  help  me  to  be  good." 

They  were  both  silent  for  some  time,  while  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  quiet  of  the  country  night  was  the 
baying  of  a  very  distant  dog. 

And  from  the  wall  flowers  came  a  faint  spicy  odour, 
delicious,  and  homely  and  pure. 

Charles  Cressage  felt  as  if  he  were  a  child  again.     His 


LORD    CHARLES  MAKES  LOVE         247 

love  for  Beechy  was  as  innocent  as  that  of  a  child  for  its 
mother.  He  moved  slowly,  for  her  hands  were  on  his 
head,  and  looked  up  at  her.  "What  have  you  done  to 
me?"  he  murmured. 

And,  bending  down  to  him,  she  pushed  back  the  dishev- 
elled lock  and  kissed  his  white  forehead.  Another  minute 
and  he  stood,  his  arms  folded,  staring  moodily  at  the  sun-dial, 
while  Chris,  who  had  been  with  his  sister  to  post  a  letter, 
ran  up  to  them  calling  loudly  to  Beechy. 


BEECHY   MAKES    LOVE   AND   MEETS  A    STRANGER 

THE  next  morning  Beechy  rose  very  early  and  started 
off  with  Chris  for  a  walk.  She  would  have  liked 
to  go  to  mass,  but  there  was  no  Catholic  church 
nearer  than  London,  and  the  next  best  thing  was  a  morning 
in  the  woods. 

Chris  was  what  his  sister  called  an  understanding  little 
cuss,  and  Beechy  knew  that  he  would  fall  in  with  her 
mood  of  silence. 

Up  the  glistening  road  they  walked,  he  holding  to  her 
arm  in  brazen  affection, — his  mother  was  an  American, 
which  may  have  accounted  for  his  lack  of  British  shame- 
facedness — his  face  very  near  her  shoulder.  They  mounted 
a  hill,  and  then  striking  off  to  the  left  followed  a  narrow 
path,  where  some  belated  primroses  still  nestled,  and  at 
length  got  into  the  woods. 

The  lovely  lime-leaves  glistened  in  the  young  sunlight, 
a  great  oak,  gaunt  and  sere,  towered  above  the  firs,  and 
somewhere  out  of  sight  a  brook  called  back  to  the  birds. 

"  Chris,"  asked  Beechy  with  many  r*s  in  the  word,  "  don't 
you  love  the  spring?" 

"  Rather,"  returned  the  boy.  "  I  do  so  like  flowers,  I 
think  roses  are  the  nicest  flower,  don't  you?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  and — I  like  wall-flowers,  too." 

As  she  spoke,  she  blushed  to  remember  why  she  liked 
wall-flowers. 


'MAKES  LOVE  AND  MEETS  A  STRANGER  249 

"Yes,  wall-flowers  are  jolly.  Helen  likes  geraniums, 
but  I  don't  much,  they  smell  so." 

They  wandered  down  the  slope  and  came  to  the  brook. 

"  I  say,"  began  the  boy,  suddenly,  "  I  am  glad  you  came, 
Beechy.  It  was  so  dull  last  year;  nothing  but  grown-ups." 

Beechy  glanced  down  at  him,  not  without  pride  in  her 
age. 

"I  am  grown  up,  Bat  Ear,"  she  said,  using  his  nick- 
name. 

"  Of  course  you  are,  in  a  way,"  he  hastened  to  apolo- 
gise, "  only  you  are  young  too.  And  besides " 

He  broke  off,  "  I  don't  quite  know,  but " 

She  laughed  and  patted  his  hair.  "  Good  little  Young 
Etonian,"  she  said. 

"  Lord  Charles  calls  me  that.  H'm — do  you  like  him, 
Beechy?" 

"  I  do,  Bat  Ear." 

"Helen  says  he's  in  love  with  you.     Is  he?" 

Beechy  laughed  again.  "  You  ask  heem"  she  answered. 
"  Ah,  here  he  comes, — ask  him  now !  " 

She  was  teasing,  for  she  knew  the  little  boy  would  not 
dare.  Cressage  came  rapidly  down  the  slope,  his  hat  in 
his  hand. 

"  I  say,  Young  Etonian,"  he  said,  as  he  kissed  Beechy's 
hand,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  Signorina  Cavaleone — you  run 
on  ahead  and  I'll  take  you  to  Dorking  in  my  motor  this 
afternoon." 

Sorely  tempted,  Chris  hesitated.  "  Do  you  wish  me  to?  " 
he  asked  Beechy. 

She  nodded,  and  the  boy  ran  away,  tossing  up  his  cap. 
"  I'll  wait  for  you  at  the  road,"  he  called  back  with  a  rush 
of  diplomacy. 


250  BEECHY 

They  both  laughed.  Then,  when  he  was  out  of  sight, 
he  turned  to  Beechy. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  gently. 

His  hat  lay  on  the  ground  near  the  brook,  and  the  sun- 
light coming  through  the  trees  dappled  his  hair.  He  took 
her  hands  very  tenderly  and  kissed  first  one,  then  the  other. 
"  Beatrice — I  love  you." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  And — and — what  you  have  done  to  me  Heaven  only 
knows,  but — I  feel  like — someone  else." 

He  was  speaking  the  simple  truth  and  it  meant  much 
more  than  she  could  even  imagine. 

They  had  left  their  usual  selves  in  town;  he  had  left 
his  weary  old  pleasure-seeking,  cynical  self;  she  her  self- 
centred,  ill-educated,  artistic  self;  and  here  in  the  clean 
country,  Sunday  morning,  they  each  found  a  new,  better 
nature.  She  smiled  at  him. 

Sometimes  in  its  eager  vitality  her  face  lacked  tender- 
ness. Now  it  was  softened  and  lovely. 

"  I  love  you,  too,"  she  said  at  last,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
The  inimitable  scene  in  "  Richard  Feveril "  flashed 
into  his  mind  as  she  spoke.  He  forgot  his  age,  his  past, 
his  future.  For  him  there  was  only  the  marvellous,  inno- 
cent present.  He  kissed  her  with  something  very  near  rev- 
erence. 

"  Let  us  go  now,  dear,"  he  said,  "  or  Chris  will  be  tired 
of  waiting."  Leaning  on  his  arm,  she  climbed  the  slope 
and  they  joined  the  little  boy  who  was  whistling  softly  to 
himself  at  the  edge  of  the  road.  .  .  . 

That  one  day  was  perfect,  and  as  such  remained  a  beau- 
tiful memory  always. 

After  breakfast  they  all  went  to  church  and  Beechy  was 


MAKES  LOVE  AND  MEETS  A  STRANGER    251 

surprised  and  delighted  by  the  likeness  of  the  service  to  some 
services  in  her  own  church. 

After  luncheon  she  and  Cressage  and  Chris  went  to 
Dorking  in  his  motor,  as  he  had  promised,  and  the  'drive 
was  an  excursion  into  the  realms  of  Paradise.  Cressage 
and  Beechy  did  not  talk  much,  for  the  motor  was  an  open 
one  and  Chris  on  the  front  seat  had  quick  ears.  But  it 
was  bliss  enough  to  be  together,  and  together,  to  look  at 
the  lovely  spring-decked  world  as  they  sped  along.  On 
the  way  home  it  grew  cold  and  Cressage  wrapped  the  girl 
in  a  fur  coat  of  his  own.  "  I  envy  it,"  he  whispered,  and 
she  blushed  vividly,  putting  into  the  words  more  than  he 
meant. 

For  he  was  keyed  up  to  a  kind  of  ecstacy  of  mind  that 
made  him  for  the  moment  less  earthly  than  she,  young, 
Southern  and  in  love  in  the  spring-time. 

"  The  rector  and  Mrs.  Maddison  are  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Miss,"  Roger  Eustace's  butler  told  her  as  they  en- 
tered the  house. 

"Oh!  I  wonder "  She  laughed.  "Do  you  think 

I  would  like  them,  Meakin  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Well,  Miss,  no,  I  'ardly  think  you  would,  Miss,"  he 
answered,  not  so  shocked  by  her  bad  manners  as  he  should 
have  been. 

"  Come  into  the  library,  dear,"  put  in  Cressage,  before 
she  could  say  anything  more. 

The  library  was  nearly  dark,  but  a  low  fire  still  glowed 
on  the  hearth.  Beechy  stood  by  it,  holding  up  one  foot 
to  the  warmth. 

"  How  cold  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Ah,  what  a  day  to-day 
must  be  in  Roma." 

Cressage  did  not  answer.     He  was  watching  her. 


252  BEECHY 

"  In  England,"  she  went  on,  absently,  "  it  change  so 
quick.  One  hour  warm,  then  puff! — it  is  winter  again. 
I  hope  I  have  not  taken  cold." 

Her  mouth  closed;  she  sang  two  or  three  nasal  notes, 
laughing  afterwards  with  content.  "  No,  my  voice  is  all 
right.  On  the  tenth,  you  know,  I  sing  '  Ai'da.'  '  Ai'da '  for 
the  first  time!  Oh,  it  makes  me  so  nervous.  Suppose  I 
break  down — cielo,  mi  fa  tanto  paura!  " 

Cressage  frowned.     He  was  forgotten  and  he  was  jealous. 

"  Beatrice,  tell  me  you  love  me,"  he  commanded. 

She  looked  up,  delighted,  stirred,  by  the  authority  in  his 
voice.  "  Love  you  ?  Ma  si,"  she  went  on  in  Italian,  "  I 
love  you,  my  Love,  my  Love !  " 

Running  to  him  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  her 
face  held  up  to  his,  not  an  English  girl  accepting  only, 
but  an  Italian  giving  as  much  as  she  accepted,  warm- 
blooded, demonstrative,  strong. 

Cressage  lost  his  head.  He  loved  her  and  under  the 
innocent  passion  of  her  embrace  his  strange  recent  mood  of 
exaltation  was  swept  into  oblivion.  "  Mine,"  he  whis- 
pered between  kisses,  "  my  girl,  my  woman,  my  mate." 

And  she  was  glad. 

She  loved,  and  she  liked  his  warm  human  love  far  better 
than  his  respectful  homage.  She  was  kissed  and  she  kissed, 
and  clung  to  him  with  her  strong  young  arms. 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  at  last,  drawing  away  from 
him,  "glad." 

"My  girl!" 

"  Yes.  It  is  good  to  love,"  she  said  in  Italian.  "  It 
makes  one  good  and  strong.  It  is  good  for  everything.  I 
shall  sing  better  now.  Now  I  can  sing  Giulietta!  Aube- 


MAKES  LOVE  AND  MEETS  A  STRANGER    253 

pine  said  to  me  the  other  day  that  I  could  not  sing  Giulietta 
until  I  loved." 

"Oh,  did  he?"  asked  Cressage,  drily.  He  hated  the 
idea  of  her  love  for  him  warming  her  voice  for  that  little 
swine  Aubepine.  All  the  Cressages  are  jealous. 

"Yes,"  Beechy  answered,  too  wrapt  in  her  own  thoughts 
to  notice  his  ill  humour.  "  Oh,  caro,  caro,  caro." 

Under  the  light  in  her  eyes  he  melted. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  my  beloved.  Beechy,  I  mean 
to  be  very  good  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course.     And  I  to  you." 

"You  must  understand  me,  dearest.  I  am  a  beast,  you 
know.  I — I  am  horribly  jealous." 

"Of  course.  All  men  are  jealous.  But — of  me?  No, 
not  when  I  love  you  as  I  do." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  loathe  Aubepine,  damn  him. 
And  that  little  bounder  who  sang  '  Faust '  with  you  the 
other  night." 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "Subiaco!  Poor  little  Ca- 
millo,  no!  " 

"  Yes.  And — for  heaven's  sake  don't  call  him  by  his 
Christian  name." 

"  My  dear — all  artists  call  each  other "  she  began, 

but  at  that  minute  the  dressing-bell  rang  and  he  caught 
her  to  kiss  her  good-bye  till  dinner. 

There  was  a  party  that  night,  but  Beechy  could  never 
remember  of  whom  it  consisted.  There  was  a  young  man 
with  red  hair,  she  knew,  who  didn't  know — think  of  it! — 
who  she  was,  "  never  went  to  opera,"  he  said,  unabashed. 

After  dinner,  just  after  the  men  had  come  to  the  drawing- 
room,  Beechy  again,  by  request,  in  her  white  frock  of  the 


254  BEECHY 

evening  before,  was  standing  by  a  window  talking  to  an 
old  lady  the  lids  of  whose  eyes  looked  like  raw  beef,  so 
that  it  was  hard  to  appear  unconscious  of  them. 

"  Jenny  Lind,"  the  old  lady  was  saying,  "  was  lovely 
and  such  a  lady.  An  artist,  I  used  to  say,  but  at  the  same 
time,  such  a  lady." 

As  she  arrived  at  this  point,  Beechy  regarding  her  sol- 
emnly, in  a  violent  effort  not  to  laugh,  Meakin  opened  the 
door  softly. 

"  Lady  Charles  Cressage,  my  lady,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
LADY  CHARLES 

THERE  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  as  a  very 
tall,  very  thin  figure  with  a  near-sighted  forward 
poke  of  the  head,  appeared  in  the  lamplight,  Lady 
Cossie  rose  and  went  forward.     "  My  dear  Kitty,"  she  said, 
suddenly,  "  what  a  delightful  surprise." 

Lady  Charles  gave  a  little,  nervous  high  laugh. 

"  Thanks,  Cousin  Cassandra,"  she  returned.  "  I  have 
come  in  a  motor  to  ask  you  to  let  me  stop  the  night.  I 
wish  to  see  Charles  on  business.  How  do,  Charles?" 

"My  wife,"  remarked  Lord  Charles  to  Beechy  and  the 
old  lady  with  the  red  eyelids,  "  is  the  only  creature  on 
earth  who  calls  Cossie  Bleck  '  Cassandra.' " 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  his  wife  and  stood  looking  at 
her  as  if  her  sudden  appearance  caused  him  a  mild  sort  of 
amusement. 

Lady  Charles  was  thin  almost  to  emaciation,  but  red- 
brown  and  healthy  looking.  Her  neck  was  the  neck  of  a 
plucked  fowl,  her  eyelashes  white,  her  nose  red  and  hooked. 
She  wore  over  her  hat  a  very  ugly  grey  motor  veil,  and 
over  her  short  coat  and  skirt  a  long,  equally  ugly  light 
brown  motor  coat. 

Catherine  Margaret  Clifford  Duplessis,  only  daughter  of 
the  Earl  of  Dundee,  wife  of  Lord  Charles  Cressage. 

Beechy's  first  curious  sensation  was  one  of  amusement, 
but  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  suffering  for  hours  as  the 
instinct  to  laugh  came  to  her. 

255 


256  BEECHY 

Lady  Charles  was  not  only  ugly,  she  was  almost  ridicu- 
lous as  she  stood  blinking  in  the  strong  light. 

"  I  shall  have  to  be  off  by  seven,"  she  said,  "  for  I  have 
the  house  full  of  people — may  Charles  come  and  talk  to 
me,  Cousin  Cassandra?  " 

Lady  Cossie  nodded.  "  Of  course,  my  dear  Kitty. 
Charles." 

The  old  lady's  pronunciation  of  Cressage's  name  bore 
something  very  like  command  in  it.  He  smiled. 

"  I  obey,  Cousin  Cossie.  There's  a  fire  in  the  library, 
Kitty." 

An  hour  and  a  half  later,  the  guests  having  gone  in  a 
group,  very  early,  Lord  and  Lady  Charles  came  back  into 
the  drawing-room. 

"  Thanks  so  much,  Cousin  Cassandra,"  Lady  Charles 
began,  abruptly.  "  Oh,  may  I  have  some  food  ?  I  left 
home  just  after  tea." 

She  had  taken  off  her  coat  and  stood  revealed  in  a 
shabby  dark  blue  coat  and  skirt. 

Lady  Cossie  bustled  out  of  the  room.  "  My  dear  Kitty, 
I  must  see  that  your  room  is  comfortable." 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Cressage  quietly,  "  come  and  let  me 
introduce  you  to  my  wife." 

Beechy  came  forward.  "  Kitty,  the  great  Signorina 
Cavaleone,"  he  continued.  "  Sit  down,  Beatrice." 

Lady  Charles  shot  at  him  a  look  of  a  kind  of  wild  dis- 
like that  sat  oddly  on  her  thin  face. 

"  I  have  heard  about  you,  my  'dear,"  she  said  kindly, 
turning  to  the  girl.  "  That  is  why  I  have  come." 

Beechy  had  of  course  expected  jealousy,  anger,  dislike.  Bit- 
terness, sarcasm,  even  rudeness  would  not  have  surprised  her. 

But  Lady  Charles's  words  and  voice  took  from  her  all 


LADY  CHARLES  257 

power  of  speech.  She  stood  quiet,  looking  at,  but  not 
seeing,  the  fire. 

"  Sit  down,"  Lady  Charles  went  on,  and  Beechy  obeyed. 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  on  purpose  to  see  you,"  she  con- 
tinued, rubbing  her  red,  bony  hands  together.  "  He  is 
furious  with  me.  He'd  like  to  wring  my  neck,  wouldn't 
you,  Charles?  But  he  can't.  Against  the  law.  He  is 
going  away  to-morrow  to  Paris.  To  stay  for  a  long  time. 
Aren't  you,  Charles?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  going  away,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  his  nostrils 
as  white  as  chalk. 

"  Before  he  goes,  however,"  went  on  Lady  Charles  to 
Beechy,  with  a  little  grim  smile.  "  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion, before  him.  Did  you  know  that  he  was  married?" 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Cressage  did  not  move,  he 
did  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  Beechy  understood  his  position 
and  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  lied  for  him. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  it,"  she  said  deliberately. 

Lady  Charles  did  not  answer,  and  for  several  seconds 
the  only  sound  was  that  of  the  leaping  of  the  flames  in 
the  hearth. 

"  Then — well,  everyone  knows  that  I  left  him  because  he 
is  so  bad,"  went  on  the  strange  woman  at  last,  "  that — 
well,  I  have  only  this  to  say:  It  is  a  good  thing  for  you 
that  I  heard  about  you,  and  then,  yesterday,  about  his 
being  here.  You  will  hate  me  for  sending  him  to  Paris, 
but — you'll  find  the  charm  doesn't  last  when  he's  out  of 
sight.  It  is  chiefly  looks." 

Beechy   fixed   her   eyes   on   Cressage. 

"  Do  you  allow  yourself  to  be  sent  away  like  this?  "  she 
asked  gently.  "Are  you  a  child,  or  an — imbecile?" 

"  Yes,"    he   returned   in   the   same  voice.    "  I   am — an 


258  BEECHY 

imbecile.  Well — this  is  bad,"  he  said,  his  voice  changing, 
"  I  have  had  enough  of  it.  Good-bye,  Kitty.  Good-bye, 
Beatrice.  Don't  forget  me." 

He  went  quickly  from  the  room,  and  Lady  Charles 
'drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  do  so  dislike  him,"  she  said  ab- 
sently. 

Beechy  gave  a  short  laugh.     "  So  it  seems,"  she  said. 

"  My  dear — if  you  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do." 

Beechy  looked  at  her  with  much  dignity.  "  I  sink  I 
know  him  more  better  zan  you,"  she  said. 

Lady  Charles  rose,  overturning  a  small  chair  as  she  did 
so,  but  appearing  not  to  notice  the  accident.  "  My  dear 
child,"  she  cried  kindly,  "don't  think  that.  Don't  mis- 
trust me.  I  am  trying  to  help  you,  indeed  I  am!  I  know 
that  he  is  in  love  with  you  and — he  is  always  charming 
when  he  is  in  love.  I  don't  'deny  that  for  a  moment.  But 
— you  are  a  good  liar,  but  I  knew  you  were  lying — a  man 
who  will  let  a  young  girl  fall  in  love  with  him  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  is  unmarried.  My  dear,  quelle  canaille!  " 

She  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  convinced  Beechy 
once  and  for  all  of  her  good  faith,  her  good  intentions. 

But  Beechy  loved  Charles  Cressage.  "  He  did  not  know 
I  did  not  know  he  was  married,"  she  said,  speaking  slowly 
and  carefully.  "  We  never  talk  about  it.  People  might 
have  tell  me  everything.  He  knew  that.  It  was  pure 
luck.  That  is  the  truth." 

Lady  Charles  stood  close  by  her,  looking  'down.  "  That 
may  be,  my  dear.  Let's  hope  it  is.  But — you  see  I  knew 
he  was  married  and — I  heard  of  you  from  several  people; 
that  you  are  young  and  good.  So — I  came.  Try  not  to 
hate  me." 

Beechy  looked  up.     "  You  make  him  unhappy,"  she  an- 


LADY   CHARLES  259 

swered,  primitively,  "  so  of  course  I  hate  you.  But,"  she 
added  slowly,  "  you  are  good." 

She  was  obviously  trying  to  be  just,  and  Catherine  Cres- 
sage  saw  it. 

"  I  try  to  be  good,"  Catherine  Cressage  answered.  For 
a  moment  the  two  simple  souls  were  very  near  each  other. 
Then — through  the  window  came  a  whiff  of  cigar  smoke 
and  Beechy  rose  abruptly. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  and — good-bye." 

She  went  to  her  room  and  locking  her  door  sat  down  by 
a  window.  Cressage,  "she  knew,  was  waiting  for  her  in  the 
garden,  but  she  did  not  go  to  him.  She  believed  (and  it 
was  indeed  true)  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of  her  be- 
lieving him  to  be  an  unmarried  man;  she  saw  how  it  had 
happened,  and  she  appreciated  his  behaviour  the  evening 
before  and  that  morning.  He  had  believed  that  she  knew, 
and  yet — he  had  treated  her  with  the  utmost  respect. 

For  this  she  loved  him  more  than  before,  but  her  love 
was  young  and  her  pain  was  great,  and  he  had  stood  before 
his  wife  in  a  mental  attitude  that  hurt  her  pride  in,  as  well 
as  for,  him. 

There  was  not,  she  knew,  much  for  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion to  do  but — the  little  he  might  have  done  he  had  over- 
looked, and  not  taken  the  trouble  to  do. 

There  he  was  in  the  garden,  sauntering  about  among  the 
flowers,  his  cigar  a  little  beacon  signalling  to  her  to  come 
and  join  him. 

But  she  did  not  go. 

At  last  he  came  in,  and  in  a  few  minutes  came  a  short 
knock  at  the  door.  She  sat  still,  her  heart  beating  hard. 
The  knock  was  not  repeated  and  when  at  last  she  rose  to 
go  to  bed  she  saw  under  her  door  an  envelope. 


26o  BEECHY 

"  My  beloved,"  it  said,  "  do  not  be  cruel  to  me.  I  must 
go.  She  is  right,  you  see.  You  must  not  love  me.  My 
loving  you  will  do  no  harm.  You  have  made  me  not  good, 
but  less  bad  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  being.  So  I  will  not 
try  to  see  you." 

Beechy  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

So  he  was  good  after  all.  As  good  as  one  of  the  holy 
Saints.  And  she  loved  him,  she  loved  him.  All  her  life 
she  would  live  on  the  memory  of  their  short  happiness. 

When  she  awoke,  he  had  gone  to  London  and  Lady 
Charles,  Lady  Cossie  told  her,  back  to  Beckenbrake. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

SlGNORA    SCARPIA    AND    IL     SlGNOR    LORD 

ON  the  last  night  in  June  Alexis  Wauchope,  after 
the  second  act  of  "  Aida,"  went  behind  to  see  Cava- 
leone.     "  I  found  her,"  he  told  his  mother,  "  walk- 
ing up  and  down  her  room,  poor  Scarpia  out  of  the  way. 
When  I  told  her  through  the  door  who  I  was,  she  let  me 
in,  saying,   '  Oh,  it's  only  you ! ' J 

"  She  had  sung  magnificently,  but  she  looked  very  ill  in- 
deed, her  eyes  hollow,  her  chin  sharp.  I  had  not  seen  her 
for  a  fortnight. 

"  '  You  are  ill.'  I  said."  (Wauchope  never  asked  ques- 
tions.) 

" '  Yes,'  she  said  with  her  beautiful  directness. 

" '  Overwork.' 

" '  No,  Lex.' 

"  She  stood  there  looking  at  me  from  under  her  pearl 
cap — a  braid  as  big  as  a  cable  on  either  shoulder. 

"  So  then  I  said  '  Love.' 

"'Yes,  Lex.' 

"  It  had  come  sooner  than  I  had  expected  it,  but  I  had 
of  course  been  looking  for  it.  Women  with  physiques  like 
hers — I  knew.  She  held  out  her  hands  and  I  kissed  them. 
Nice  hands,  cool  and  strong,  with  pink  finger  tips.  Poor 
Beechy.  She  looked  straight  into  my  eyes  for  a  long  time. 
She  looked  proud  of  it,  which  was  fine,  for  I  of  course 
knew  that  man  was  Charles  Cressage. 

261 


262  'BEECHY 

" '  Lex — he  has  been  gone  so  long,'  she  said,  as  if  she 
had  lost  her  doll. 

f '  Paris,'  I  answere'd. 

"  '  Do  you  know  when  he  is  coming  back  ? ' 

"'No,  Beechy.' 

"  She  drew  away  her  hands.  '  I  don't  think  I  can  bear 
it  much  longer,'  she  said.  '  This  music  drives  me  mad.' 
It  was  the  most  direct  confession  of  the  effect  of  music  on 
the  senses  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

"Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  herself  in  her  long 
glass.  '  I  am  hideous,  to-night,  too.  But  I  am  singing 
very  well,  ain't  I  ? '  she  added. 

"  The  '  ain't  I '  she  had  caught  from  Cressage. 

"Then  I  left  her,  and  the  first  man  I  saw  on  my  way 
to  my  stall  was  Cressage." 

(Old  Mrs.  Wauchope  heard  all  the  details,  but  no  one 
else  ever  learned  one  thing  from  Little  Lex.) 

"'Hullo,'  I  said.       'You  back?' 

"'Yes.     Have  you  been  behind?' 

"'Just  come  back.' 

"  '  How  is — the  great  lady  ?  ' 

" '  What  you  swells  call  jolly  seedy.' 

"'No!' 

"  '  Yes.'  Then  I  looked  away.  Wife  or  no  wife  it 
wouldn't  do  for  her  to  get  ill. 

"  He  never  moved  during  the  third  act.  WTien  she  was 
called  before  the  curtain  he  didn't  even  clap.  Poor  devil. 
Then  he  went — behind  of  course.  And  I  went  to  the 
Savoy  an'd  drank  a  small  bottle  of  Pol  Roger  by  my  wee 
self  and  meditated  on  love  and  other  trifles." 

When  Cressage  found  himself  at  Beechy's  door,  he 
paused.  If  he  went  away  even  then?  She  was  young — 


SIGNOR4  SCARPIA  AND  IL  SIGNOR  LORD    263 

tout-passe.  Then  he  heard  her  voice  speaking  to  her  maid, 
and  he  knocked. 

She  was  sitting  at  her  'dressing-table,  her  hair  unplaited, 
preparatory  to  being  bundled  up  on  her  head  for  her  home 
going. 

"Who  is  it?" 

Then  she  turned. 

"  You  may  go,  Mrs.  Williamson,"  she  said  quietly.  Then 
when  the  door  closed  she  went  to  Cressage. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms  round  him, 
"you  must  stay  with  me." 

Then  she  burst  into  tears  and  cried  till  she  could  cry 
no  more. 

Cressage  was  used  to  Beauty  in  Tears,  and  held  her 
close  and  comfortably  until  the  outburst  was  over. 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked. 

"What  did  you  do  in  Paris?" 

" Cursed.     And  longed  for  you." 

"When  'did  you  get  back?" 

"  At  seven-thirty." 

"And " 

"  And — I  love  you.     You  missed  me  ?  " 

For  all  answer  she  held  up  her  arm  and  he  saw  that 
she  had  grown  thin. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep,"  she  »aid. 

"  Nor  I.  Beatrice  my  beloved — it  has  been  horrible. 
Never  again — my  wife  will  get  after  us — she  is  bent  on 
saving  you." 

Beechy  laughed.    "Did  you  promise  not  to  see  me?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  keep  my  promises,  dear.  But — she 
inferred  things.  She  liked  you.  Poor  Kitty,"  he  added 
with  genuine  kindness.  "You  liked  her,  didn't  you?" 


264  BEECHY 

"  No,"  said  Beechy  firmly,  "  I  wouldn't.  I — wanted 
to,  but  she  was  'orrid  to  you." 

"  Cockney,"  he  teased.  "  But — don't  think  her  'orrid 
to  me.  She's  been  very  good  to  me  in  her  way,"  he  went 
on  meditating.  "  I  was  impossible  as  a  husband." 

"Surely  you  weren't  unkind  to  her?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  never  unkind.     But  so  damned  unfaithful." 

She  burst  out  laughing,  the  laughter  ended  in  a  sob,  and 
back  she  flew  to  his  arms. 

"  Hold  me  tight  or  you  will  melt  away  like  a  dream," 
she  begged,  piteously,  like  a  child. 

Presently  she  sent  him  out  to  wait  for  her,  and  called 
in  her  dresser.  An  hour  later  they  were  at  her  hotel. 

"  My  poor  Scarpia  is  ill,"  she  explained,  as  they  went 
into  her  sitting-room.  "  She  has  such  a  bad  cold.  Besides, 
you  were  safe  in  Paris!  I  must  tell  her  you  are  here,"  she 
added. 

The  room  was  full  of  flowers,  and  several  letters  and 
notes  awaited  the  prima  donna. 

Cressage,  left  alone,  walked  up  and  down  pulling  at  his 
moustache. 

Here  he  was  again  I  And  in  a  moment  she  would  be 
coming  back  to  him.  And  she  loved  him.  She  knew  her 
own  mind.  They  had  tried  separation  and — it  had  done  no 
good  to  either  of  them.  Vogue  la  galere. 

When  Beechy  came  in,  a  long  mauve  tea-gown  sweeping 
round  her,  he  drew  her  down  to  a  sofa  beside  him  and  the 
galere  voguait,  voguait,  voguiat,  until  he  had  nearly  lost 
count  of  things  when  the  door  opened  and  old  Scarpia,  in 
red  satin,  came  in. 

"JBuona  sera,"  she  said,  ungraciously. 

Beechy  rose.     "  Oh,   Signora  Evelina !  " 


SIGNORA  SCARPIA  AND  IL  SIGNOR  LORD    265 

There  was  in  her  voice  a  mixture  of  anger  and  depreca- 
tion that  perfectly  expressed  her  relations  with  the  older 
woman. 

"  Send  her  away,"  muttered  Cressage,  pulling  his  mous- 
tache nervously. 

"  Please  go  back  to  bed,  dear  friend,"  Beechy  began,  but 
Signora  Scarpia  waved  her  words  away  with  some  effect. 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  love  you,  and  I  will  not  leave  you 
alone  with  il  Signer  Lord." 

The  Signer  Lord  frowned  but  smiled  ruefully  at  the 
same  time. 

"  Dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  you  wrong  me.  Incidentally — 
are  you  quite  fair  to  Beatrice  who " 

"  Who  is  a  young  woman  very  much  in  love,"  retorted 
the  unwieldy  old  singing  teacher  firmly.  "  I  wrong  no 
one,  Signer  Lord  Carlo " 

Beechy,  touched,  put  her  arms  round  her  faithful  friend 
and  kissed  her. 

"  Listen,  dear  Signora  Evelina,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
right  in  one  way.  I  love  Lord  Charles,  and  he  loves  me. 
But — he's  married,  alas, — so  you  see " 

Scarpia  sniffed,   but  she  held    Beechy's  hands  in  hers. 

"  That  marriage  is  a  safeguard  against  love  and  all 
other  ills,"  she  returned  drily,  "  we  all  know.  But " 

"Hush,  dear!" 

Beechy  drew  away  her  hands  and  laid  one  over  the  old 
woman's  mouth.  "  Don't  be  cross.  Lord  Charles  is  not 
bad.  He  is  good.  He  went  away  and  tried  to  stay.  But 
he  could  not.  And  me, — I  was  dying — you  know  I  was 
dying,"  she  added  simply,  "  so  he  has  come  back.  But — 
we  are  going  to  be  very  good.  We  are  going  to  be — friends, 
not  lovers,"  she  used  the  unmistakable  Italian  noun  fear- 


266  BEECHY 

lessly,  looking  straight  at  Cressage,  as  she  spoke.  "  Are 
we  not?  " 

He  was  cruelly  embarrassed.  It  was  ghastly  to  have  thus 
to  justify  oneself  to  this  vulgar  old  matron  in  a  red  satin 
tea-gown.  He  hated  her.  But  Beechy's  question  must  be 
answered. 

"  Dear  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  your  wish  is  my  law.  What- 
ever you  say  shall  be  done." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  triumphant.  "  You  see,  Sig- 
nora  Evelina?  Well — yes.  We  are  to  be  friends.  And," 
to  the  Scarpia,  "  I  give  to  you  my  word  of  honour." 

The  old  woman  kissed  her  and  left  the  room  without 
a  word,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  asked  Cressage  in  Italian,  as 
the  door  closed.  "  What  in  the  name  of  God  has  she  to 
do  with  us  two?  What  has  anyone  to  do  with  us 
two?" 

Becchy  sat  down  by  him. 

"  She  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  she  returned,  "  and 
I  love  her.  If  she  didn't  love  me — she  wouldn't  care. 
And  I  couldn't  have  her  worried.  Ah,  my  dearest,  don't 
scold  me!  I  am  so  happy  to-night " 

Cressage  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  But — how  can 
we  be  friends?  I  tell  you  plainly  I  can't  do  it.  I  love 
you,  you  understand !  " 

Springing  up  she  faced  him.  "  Ma  si,  ma  si !  You  can. 
Of  course  you  love  rne.  But — we  will  be  friends.  You 
see,  I — I  know  your  wife." 

He  was  honestly  puzzled.  "  What  has  she  to  do  with 
it?  You  seem  to  think  our  affairs  concern  everyone  on 
earth  but  me!  You  don't  think  Kitty  cares  what  I  do? 
She  was  concerned  only  for  you,  to  do  her  justice!" 


SIGNORA  SCARPIA  AND  IL  SIGNOR  LORD    267 

"  I  know.  But  she  was  right.  You  said  so  yourself. 
Look " 

Opening  the  bosom  of  her  gown  she  drew  out  a  little 
white  satin  bag  from  which,  folded  very  small,  she  took 
the  letter  he  had  slipped  under  her  door  at  Lady  Cossie's. 
"  '  You  see  she  is  right,'  she  quoted.  '  You  must  not  love 
me.'  " 

He  was  greatly  touched.  "  You  have  worn  that — there 
— all  this  time?  " 

"  Night  and  day,"  she  said.     "  It  was  all  I  had." 

He  rose  and  took  her  into  his  arms  again. 

"  God  knows  where  I  got  the  courage  to  write  that," 
he  said,  "  but  I  did  write  it,  so — we  will  try  to  stick  to  it. 
You  are  right.  Kitty  is  right.  Poor  old  What's-her-name- 
Scarpia  is  right.  All  right,  all  you  good  people.  Only  I, 
the  Bad  Man,  am  wrong." 

He  made  a  funny  wry  face  as  he  bent  and  kissed  her 
hair.  "  I  am  always  wrong,"  he  added  a  little  sadly, 
"  but — I  love  the  best  woman  in  the  world." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me.  But  Carlo  mio "  she  had  never 

before  called  him  by  his  name,  and  the  event  carried  with 
it  its  usual  thrill, — "  it  is  so  easy  to  be  good  when  one  is 
happy.  And  now  you  have  come  back  and  I  can  see  you 
sometimes — I  shall  be  so  happy.  Ah,  how  I  shall  sing!  " 
she  added. 

When  he  had  left  her  she  knelt  in  front  of  a  little  blue 
and  white  statuette  of  the  Madonna  by  her  bed;  and 
prayed.  And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  forgot  to 
pray  for  her  voice  and  herself. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

BEECHY  MAKES  A   NEW  FRIEND 

EJDY  CHARLES  CRESSAGE  was  sitting  in  the 
library  of  her  house  in  Portland  Place.  It  was 
a  rainy  afternoon  and  two  big  bronze  electric 
lights  were  aglow  under  their  green  shades,  and  a  fire 
burned  low  on  the  hearth.  The  way  different  people  take 
solitude  is  very  useful  as  a  key  to  their  characters,  and 
Lady  Charles  was  of  those  who  not  only  bear  solitude  well, 
but  really  love  It. 

She  sat  there  in  her  father's  solemn  old  library,  which  she 
had  not  altered  in  any  way  since  his  death  made  it  hers, 
working  with  knotted  brow  and  eager  eyes,  over  a  pile 
of  letters  and  leather-bound  account  books  that  looked  de- 
pressingly  dull  reading.  Beside  her  sat  a  small  white  dog, 
a  dog  with  the  jaw  of  a  bull-dog,  the  ears  of  a  fox-ter- 
rier, and,  together  with  his  blotted  'scutcheon,  all  the  qual- 
ities a  dog  could  have. 

His  name  was  Snob,  because  his  one  evil  trick  was  a 
trick  of  snapping  at  servants  and  poorly  dressed  strangers. 
This  is  supposed  to  be  the  outcome  of  a  shamefaced  mem- 
ory of  his  own  humble  childhood,  and  the  brute  from  whom 
many  years  ago  Lady  Charles  had  bought  him. 

We  all  have  our  faults. 

Snob  was  asleep  that  rainy  afternoon,  his  head  on  the 
skirt  of  his  mistress's  gown.  And  in  the  silence,  broken 

268 


BEECHY  MAKES  A   NEW   FRIEND      269 

only  by  the  turning  of  the  pages  and  the  crackle  of  the 
fire,  he  dreamed. 

Presently  Lady  Charles  laid  down  the  fountain  pen  with 
which  she  was  adding  up  long  columns  of  figures  and 
looked  at  the  clock. 

"  Bless  me ! "  she  said  and  rang  the  bell. 

Then  she  worked  till  the  smartly  dressed  head  parlour- 
maid brought  in  tea.  Lady  Charles  disliked  men  servants. 

Ellen  drew  the  curtains  closer  and  went  out  of  the 
room  hardly  breaking  the  silence,  and  when  the  tea  was 
quite  cold  Lady  Charles  remembered  it  and  drank  it. 

"  Snob,  wake  up.     Tea-time!  " 

Snob  growled  sleepily,  but  sat  up  and  tried  to  look  alert. 

"  Those  babies  are  not  to  be  bankrupt  this  year,"  went 
on  Lady  Charles,  cheerfully.  "  Your  friend  Mr.  Topp 
is  a  wonderful  man." 

Lady  Charles  treated  her  dog  with  more  respect  than 
she  ever  displayed  for  a  mere  man,  and  the  dog  of  course 
responded  to  treatment.  Dogs  always  do.  The  droop  of 
his  right  ear  meant,  she  knew,  a  lively  pleasure  in  the 
financial  welfare  of  the  babies  in  question. 

"  But  we  need  another  room,  Snob.  Badly,  we  need  it. 
And  then  there's  that  bit  of  woodland  behind  the  house — 
pines,  Snob,  and  pines  and  sunlight  make  ozone,  and  ozone  " 
— she  gave  him  a  large  bit  of  toast  together  with  the  in- 
formation, "  is  good  for  babies;  particularly  babies  who 
have  no  fathers.  I  wonder " 

While  she  was  wondering,  Ellen  appeared  again,  to  say 
that  a  lady  wished  to  see  her  Ladyship. 

"  A — foreign  lady,  my  Lady.  She  has  forgotten  to  bring 
her  cards,  but  says  she  met  your  Ladyship  at  Lady  Cassan- 
dra Bleck's." 


270  BEECHY 

"  Oh  I     A  very  pretty  young  lady,  Ellen,  with  blue  eyes?  " 

"Yes,  my  Lady." 

"Ask  her  to  come  in  here,  please.  And,  Ellen " 

Lady  Charles  looked  rather  shamefaced — "  will  you  bring 
some  fresh  tea.  This — is  cold." 

Ellen  gaped  reproachfully  at  her  mistress,  caught  red- 
handed  in  the  drinking  of  the  cold  tea. 

"  Very  good,  my  Lady,"  she  answered. 

When  Beechy  came  in  Lady  Charles  met  her  most  kindly. 
"  This  is  nice  of  you,"  she  said,  "  I  am  so  delighted  to  see 
you!" 

Beechy,  glowing  with  happiness,  was  indeed  a  pleasant 
sight. 

"  I — I  am  so  glad  you  do  not  mind,"  she  answered.  "  I 
— 'ave  something  to  tell  you." 

Lady  Charles's  face  changed.  "  Something  about — Lord 
Charles?" 

"  Yes.    He — has  come  back." 

The  elder  woman  rose  and  stalked  about  the  room  in  a 
restless  way  peculiar  to  her.  "  You  have  seen  him,  then  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Of  course  I  knew  he  would  come  back.  He  refused 
to  promise  not  to  see  you,  so  I  knew  he  would  try.  But 
I  had  hoped,"  she  ended  roughly,  "  that  you  had  some 
sense." 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Me,  oh,  no,  I  'ave  no  sense.  But  do  not  be  angry — I — 
may  tell  you  all  about  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — yes,  my  dear.    Sit  down  by  the  fire  and  tell  me." 

Beechy  sat  down,  and,  the  red  lamplight  and  the  red 
firelight  glowing  over  her,  told  the  story. 

She  told  the  truth,  but  she  told  the  truth  as  it  seemed 


BEECHY  MAKES  A   NEW   FRIEND      271 

to  her;  a  truth  so  beautiful,  so  romantic,  so  utterly  wild 
and  impossible  that  Lady  Charles  groaned  internally. 

"  You  see — love  is  such  a  terrible  t'ing.  It  is  so — strong. 
It  is  impossible  to  love  and  not  see  the  person,  and  live. 
It  takes  sleep  and  hunger.  All.  And  I  am  a  Roman. 
So — when  you  sent  'im  away, — I  began  to  die.  He  wrote 
me  such  beautiful  letter.  So  good.  'E  say  'she  is  right; 
you  must  not  love  me, — you  have  made  me  not  good 
but  less  bad  than  I  'ave  ever  been,  so  I  will  not  see 

you '  " 

Lady  Charles  stared,  her  light  grey  pink-rimmed  eyes 
round  with  wonder. 

"  Charles  wrote  that  to  you?  " 

"Yes." 

Charles's  wife  was  silent  for  a  moment,  readjusting  her 
ideas.  If  he  had  written  it,  he  meant  it,  she  knew,  for  she 
was  perfectly  just  to  him,  and  knew  that  he  was  no  hypo- 
crite. 

Beechy  watched  her  closely  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes — he  wrote  me  that.  Then — he  went.  And/'  she 
repeated  solemnly,  "  me,  I  began  to  die." 

"  Oh  bosh,"  snapped  Lady  Charles.  "  And  now  that  he 
has  come  back — you  can  see  for  yourself  how  much  the 
letter  meant — you  begin  to  live !  " 

Beechy  rose  suddenly,  "  Ah,  yes.  I  begin  to  live.  We 
are  so  'appy,"  she  went  on,  her  cheeks  crimson,  "  so  'appy. 
And  we  are  both  going  to  be  so  good !  " 

Most  women  would  have  considered  her  exultation,  as 
under  the  circumstances,  insulting.  Kitty  Cressage  under- 
stood. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  good, — you  and  Charles,"  she 
said  gently,  grasping  the  situation  with  the  quickness  that 


272  BEECHY 

made  her,  in  spite  of  her  appalling  ugliness,  so  sympathetic. 
"  You  and  Charles  Cressage  are  going  to  be  good !  " 

Beechy  looked  at  her. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  like  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

Ellen,  entering  with  fresh-made  tea,  postponed  the  answer 
to  the  question,  but  when  the  door  had  closed  the  girl  re- 
peated it,  and  got  her  answer. 

"  My  dear — don't  you  know  that  he  never  is  good  where 
a  woman  is  concerned." 

But  Beechy  shook  her  head  smilingly.    "  He  is  an  angel." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  dear  me!    Do  you  take  sugar?" 

"  No  tea,  please,  if  you  don't  mind " 

So  Lady  Charles  drank  it  herself  and  made  a  mental 
note,  as  she  did  every  time  she  drank  hot  tea,  that  she  liked 
it  hot  and  would  not  forget  to  drink  it  promptly  in  the 
future,  when  she  was  alone. 

"You — you  are  very  obstinate,"  she  began  again  pres- 
ently, while  Beechy  still  smiled  at  her  angelic  vision. 

"  You  puzzle  me.  But — why  have  you  come  to  tell  me 
about  it?  After  all,  he  is  my  husband.  We  are  not  di- 
vorced, you  know." 

"  I  know.  And  I  came  to  tell  you — because — I  wanted 
you  to  know  how  good  he  is." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Lady  Charles  said, 
while  Snob  settled  himself  on  her  lap.  "  I  see.  Well,  will 
you  tell  me?  " 

Beechy  leaned  forward  and  held  her  beautiful  hands  to 
the  fire. 

"  You  see, — I  was  unhappy,  ma  infelicissima.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  '  Ai'da '  I  should  be  dead.  But  '  A'ida ' — ah,  he 
speaks  Italian.  You  too  ?  " 

Lady  Charles  did.     She  and  Lord  Charles  had  lived  to- 


BEECHY  MAKES  A   NEW   FRIEND       273 

gether  two  years  in  Rome  when  they  were  first  married, 
he  at  that  time  being  First  Secretary. 

So  Beechy  went  on  in  her  own  tongue. 

" '  A'ida '  was  my  ideal  to  sing.  I  know  it  all,  all,  and  it 
is  divine  music.  And  I  sang  it,  you  know,  the  loth,  so  I 
was  busy,  busy  always,  till  then.  They  said  I  was  too 
young,  my  voice  not  ready,  but  bah!  She  who  can  sing 
'  Carmen  '  and  '  Giulietta  '  can  sing  '  A'ida.'  And  there  were 
the  costumes.  They  are  very  good,  my  costumes, — they  are 
historically  correct.  And  I  am  an  Egyptian  in  '  A'ida,'  not 
an  Italian.  I  am  slim  and  narrow  and  quiet.  So  I 
worked,  and  I  lived.  And  the  success — oh,  it  was  a  tri- 
umph. No  '  A'ida  '  is  so  good  as  I,  they  all  said  it,  all.  And 
for  a  day  and  a  night  I  was  happy.  Then — the  flowers 
came,  and  presents  which  Aurelio  would  not  let  me  keep, 
and  the  papers  wrote  about  me,  and  they  engaged  me  for 
oh  so  much  money  for  next  spring,  and  I  am  to  go  to 
America, — and  people  buy  my  photographs  and  the  Princess 
of  Wales  had  me  come  to  her  loge  and  said  kind  things  to 
me, — and — I  did  not  care. 

"  The  sun  shone  and  beautiful  day  come  every  morning, 
and  I  was  invited  to  dine  at  the  Duchess  of  Liverpool's, 
and  I  did  not  care.  I  was  dying  because  he  was  not  there. 
I  lost  three  pounds.  And  I  did  not  care  to  eat  even  the 
beautiful  things  in  little  dishes  before  the  meals." 

A  little  downward  sweep  of  her  rosy  fingers  expressed  in 
a  wonderful  way  her  utter  misery  and  hopelessness. 

"  Then — the  night  before  last — he  came.  And  I  told 
him  he  must  never  go  away  again.  And  he  will  not! " 

She  looked  up  with  a  radiant  smile  and  Lady  Charles 
drew  a  deep  breath. 

"And — the  goodness?"  she  asked. 


274  'BEECHY 

"  Ah,  yes.  Well,  you  see,  Signora  Scarpia,  who  lives 
with  me,  came  in  and — scolded  him.  She  thought  that  I 
would  be  his  mistress " 

"Oh  dear!" 

"  And  then  he  told  her  no.  I  am  well-educated,  me," 
she  explained,  using  the  word  in  the  Italian  sense,  meaning 
something  like  well-bred,  "  and  I  am  a  Christian.  Oh,  yes, 
I  am  a  Christian  and  I  go  to  mass  and  to  confession." 

"  You  would  have  married  him  then  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     I  love  him.     But — there  is  you!  " 

She  was  far  too  happy  to  be  at  all  bitter,  and  she  smiled 
affectionately  as  she  spoke. 

Poor  Lady  Charles  sighed. 

"  Yes,  there  is  me.    And  so ?  " 

"  And  so  we  are  going  to  be  very  good  friends  and  meet 
very  often,  but  that  will  be  all,  we  shall " 

Lady  Charles  held  out  her  hand,  to  ward  off  more  of 
the  girl's  unqualified  frankness. 

"  I  see.     You  are  to  be  friends." 

She  rubbed  her  long  nose  until  it  seemed  as  if  it  must 
drop  off.  "  Friends.  Charles  Cressage,"  she  added  to  her- 
self and  Snob,  "  is  to  be  the  friend  of  a  woman  with  whom 
he  is  in  love.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  " 

"  I  thought,"  said  Beechy,  her  face  falling,  "  that  you 
would  be  glad." 

"  I  am  glad,  my  dear — for  some  things.  And  I  like  you 
and — thank  you  for  coming  to  tell  me." 

Rousing  the  drowsy  dog,  she  rose  and  walked  about  for 
a  few  moments.  Then  she  came  back  to  the  fire. 

"  You  need  a  friend,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand, 
"  may  I  be  one?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE  FATE  OF  BEECHY'S  GARDENIA 

IT  was  at  this  time  that  Sargent  painted  his  great  por- 
trait of  Cavaleone.  Beechy  was  at  her  most  beautiful, 
because  at  her  most  happy,  period.  She  glowed,  she 
laughed ;  happiness  and  innocent  vanity  radiated  from  her. 

She  bought  presents  for  everyone  she  knew,  and  Aurelio, 
going  to  Italy  for  a  few  days  to  see  one  of  his  sisters  mar- 
ried, was  obliged  to  take  with  him  an  extra  box  to  carry 
the  remembrances  sent  to  Roman  friends  by  the  girl. 

She  and  the  watchful  Scarpia  shopped  by  the  hour.  They 
bought: 

A  pair  of  gold  spectacle-rims  for  old  Lamberti,  the 
maker  of  cane  chair-seats;  a  silver  photograph  for  Beechy 's 
photograph  for  him;  a  huge  box  of  Fuller's  chocolates 
( "  to  remind  him  of  the  chocolate  he  used  to  give  me  when 
I  was  little"). 

Suits  of  clothes  and  frocks  for  Signora  Marianna's  chil- 
dren (the  measures  secretly  obtained  through  old  Agnese)  ; 
sailor  suits  for  the  boys,  and  the  gayest-coloured  frocks  for 
the  girls.  A  string  of  gold  beads  for  Chiarina,  "  whom 
I  loved  the  best."  A  dress-length  of  scarlet  silk  for  Signora 
Marianna  herself. 

For  old  Agnese  a  warm  green  shawl  to  save  for  the 
winter,  a  black  silk  dress-length  and  a  beautiful  statuette 
of  St.  Joseph. 

For  Simeone  a  silver  watch  and  chain — for  was  it  not 

275 


276  BEECHY 

owing  to  that  early  songster  that  Beechy  owed  her  whole 
career?  There  was  a  beautiful  silver  Madonna  and  Child 
for  Father  Antonio,  and  an  inlaid  snuff-box  in  which  was 
folded  a  five  hundred  lira  note  for  his  poor  people. 

And  for  the  nuns,  who  could  accept  no  presents,  went 
two  large  boxes  of  sweets,  which  they  loved,  and  another 
banknote. 

"  I  ought  to  have  another  box,  if  I  am  to  take  sweets  for 
the  orphans,  too,"  poor  Aurelio  cried  ruefully,  as  they  had 
tea  at  Fuller's. 

Beechy  laughed.  "  How  good  you  are  to  me,"  she  said 
affectionately.  "The  poor  orphans  must  have  some  sweets, 
caro!" 

And  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  she  asked  Aurelio 
to  take  one  of  the  zoo  tigers  with  him  as  an  offering  to 
someone,  he  would  at  once  set  about  getting  a  cage  made. 

Signora  Scarpia,  looking  really  rather  imposing  in  a 
handsome  grey  gown  and  a  toque  trimmed  with  violets, 
drank  her  chocolate  with  pleasure.  Things  were  now  go- 
ing to  the  good  woman's  perfect  satisfaction.  Beechy  was 
well,  happy,  and  the  Scarpia's  keen  eyes  had  discovered  that 
the  girl  was  absolutely  sincere  in  her  intentions  regarding 
Cressage. 

The  Scarpia  loved  Beechy  as  if  she  had  been  her  own 
child,  but  being  an  Italian  woman  of  the  lower  middle- 
class,  she  would  not  have  been  at  all  surprised  had  she 
found  that  the  girl  had  deceived  her.  Love  is  worth  lies, 
she  would  have  said  with  a  shrug  in  any  other  case,  but 
Beechy  was  dear  to  her. 

The  old  woman,  a  willing  and  excellent  liar  herself,  had 
fully  expected  to  come  upon  signs  of  secret  meetings, — 
upon  letters,  upon  a  thousand  tokens  of  a  hidden  under- 


THE  FATE  OF  BEECHY'S  G4RDENIZ    277 

standing,  and  unscrupulously  she  had  searched  for  these 
traces.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  she  rose  early  for  the  early 
letters  and  manoeuvred  the  first  glimpse  of  the  other  posts. 
All  flowers  she  opened  and  foraged  for  notes  hidden  amongst 
them.  Cressage  did  not  write. 

When  Beechy  went  out  alone,  on  two  solitary  occasions, 
the  bulky  Signora,  who  hated  walking,  slipped  along  behind 
her,  hiding  in  doorways,  when  she  turned  to  look  into  a 
shop  window,  panting  but  rapid,  until  the  girl  had  done  her 
errand  and  reached  the  hotel  again. 

And  once  Beechy  had  gone  to  Asprey's,  and  the  other 
time  to  Solomon's,  to  order  some  flowers  for  Lady  Cossie, 
who  was  not  well. 

So  Cressage,  too,  was  playing  his  part  in  good  faith 
and  the  Signora,  amazed,  but  happy,  gave  up  watching. 

Never  had  Beechy  been  so  gentle,  so  unselfish,  as  she  was 
then,  never  so  thoughtful  of  others,  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
the  happiest  eyes  in  London,  Lex  Wauchope  said. 

That  afternoon  at  Fuller's,  Beechy  wore  a  beautiful 
new  gown,  of  which  she  was  very  vain,  and  in  which  she 
looked  her  best;  a  long  skirt  and  coat  of  heavily  braided 
white  cloth.  It  fitted  close  and,  with  her  flat  black  hat  on 
the  edge  of  the  brim  of  which  were  clustered  the  gardenias, 
gave  her  something  the  air  of  a  fantastic  huntress.  In  it, 
she  should  have  ridden  a  white  palfrey  in  a  pageant.  In 
her  coat  she  wore  a  real  gardenia. 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  like  gardenias,"  observed  Aurelio, 
suddenly. 

She  laughed,  an  odd  little  laugh,  with  a  kind  of  bubble 
in  it.  "  I  didn't.  But  Carlo  wears  one  always — so  you 
see " 

Aurelio  nodded.     "  Si,  cara,  I  understand." 


278  'BEECHY 

Beechy  made  no  secret  whatever  of  her  love  for  Cres- 
sage,  and  Aurelio  had  seen  it  from  the  first.  She  had  talked 
of  Cressage  a  great  deal,  and  while  he  was  in  Paris  her 
misery,  tragic  in  her,  unconsciously  expressed  in  a  thousand 
half  theatrical  gestures  and  intonations,  had  been  for  the 
eyes  of  anyone  with  whom  she  found  herself.  And 
more  than  once  she  had  wept  unrestrainedly  in  Aurelio's 
arms. 

He  bore  it  well,  the  young  goldsmith  turned  secretary, 
as  he  would  have  borne  torture  by  fire  for  her.  He  had 
been,  indeed,  her  greatest  help,  for  into  his  patient  ears 
she  poured  by  the  hour  her  unrestrained  and  dramatic 
lamentations. 

When,  moreover,  she  told  him  of  her  pact  with  Lord 
Charles  he  believed  her  at  once. 

"  It  can't  last,  you  know,"  he  warned,  but  in  her  good 
faith  and  Cressage's,  too,  he  never  doubted, — a  tribute  she 
did  not  appreciate,  for  while  she  readily  and  without  dis- 
gust suspected  small  treacheries  in  others,  she  took  for 
granted  that  she  herself  should  be  believed,  when  she  was 
telling  the  truth. 

It  is  difficult  for  Anglo-Saxons  to  understand  the  Latin 
standard  of  honour.  It  is  different  from  ours,  but  it  never- 
theless exists  and  is  clearly  outlined. 

In  the  little  matter,  for  instance,  of  making  his  friend's 
wife  his  mistress,  the  well-bred  Latin  has  a  qualm,  whereas 
the  menage  a  trois  has  become  something  like  a  national 
institution  in  England,  and  in  some  circles  is  accepted  even 
with  gaiety. 

This  arrangement  honestly  scandalises  your  Italian,  who 
in  consequence  believes  that  in  England  no  man  knows — or 
cares  whose  son  is  his  heir.  Naturally  the  Italian  exag- 


THE   FATE  OF  BEECHY S  GARDENIA     279 

gerates,  but  the  kernel  of  his  belief  is  sounder  than  is  quite 
pleasant. 

Aurelio  knew  enough  to  be  sure  that  trouble  must  come 
of  the  plan  arranged  by  Beechy,  but  he  was  there  and  the 
Scarpia  was  there  to  safeguard  the  girl  they  both  loved, 
and  for  the  present  at  least  Cressage's  faith  was  good.  To- 
day, however,  Aurelio  was  sad  and  absent-minded,  for  he 
was  leaving  England  the  next  day  for  a  fortnight,  and  in 
a  fortnight,  he  told  himself,  much  might  happen. 

"  Oh,  Aurelio,  how  I  envy  you !  " 

They  had  left  the  shop  and  walked  along  Bond  Street 
towards  Piccadilly.  Aurelio,  who  dressed  very  well,  was 
nearly  as  pleasant  to  look  at  as  Beechy.  He  was  remarkably 
beautiful,  the  young  Italian,  with  the  velvety  smooth  brown- 
ness  of  a  youthful  fawn,  and  the  most  romantic  golden- 
brown  eyes  in  the  world. 

Many  people  turned  to  look  at  them,  for  the  prima 
donna  was  the  celebrity  of  the  season  and  her  pictures  were 
on  sale  everywhere. 

"  Look — Cavaleone,"  they  would  say,  and  when  she 
heard  it,  Beechy  invariably  smiled  at  them.  She  loved  the 
homage  as  she  loved  the  sunshine,  and  she  never  could  see 
why  she  should  conceal  her  feelings. 

Aurelio,  for  his  part,  felt  none  of  the  half  surly  shyness 
an  Englishman  in  his  position  would  have  experienced. 

He  was  proud  of  her  and  her  fame,  and  proud  of  being 
seen  with  her.  The  Signora,  as  delighted  as  a  child  with 
her  new  lace  parasol,  the  handle  of  which,  a  carved  parrot  in 
ivory  with  two  very  crimson  cherries  in  its  beak,  hurt  her 
hand,  gladly  suffered  to  be  beautiful.  They  were,  in  spite 
of  Aurelio's  faithful  and  hopeless  love,  a  very  happy  trio 
that  afternoon  as  they  walked  slowly  up  Piccadilly. 


280  BEECHY 

"  Be  sure  you  tell  dear  Mother  Maria  Maddalena,"  be- 
gan Beechy,  at  the  corner  of  Hamilton  Place,  as  a  four-in- 
hand,  very  yellow,  very  imposing,  nodding  with  gay  hats 
and  parasols,  came  towards  him. 

"  It's  the  Signer  Lord,"  exclaimed  Signora  Scarpia, 
eagerly,  almost  waving  her  parasol. 

Lord  Charles,  on  the  box,  did  not  see  them. 

On  high  against  the  trees  in  the  park,  silhouetted  sharply 
against  the  beautiful  green,  he  sat  like  a  god,  driving  his 
four  celebrated  bays.  In  his  coat  he  wore  a  gardenia,  as 
usual,  and  as  the  drag  passed  the  little  group  of  Italians, 
he  was  bending  over  to  say  something  to  the  lady  beside 
him. 

She,  a  beautiful  white  and  gold  vision,  was  smiling  up 
at  him,  and  his  eyes  were  crinkled  in  a  way  that  meant  in 
him  amused  delight  and  homage.  His  eyes  had  this  way  of 
saying,  "  You  amuse  me  keenly,  witch,  and  your  beauty  fills 
me  with  joy,  but  you  are  a  goddess  and  I  worship  you." 

Beechy  stared  at  him,  standing  quite  still.  Then,  when 
he  had  passed,  she  tore  the  gardenia  from  her  coat  and, 
crushing  it  furiously  in  her  two  hands,  threw  it  into  the 
street. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  oh, — the  brute,  the  beast, — I  hate 
him."  Aurelio  and  the  Signora  exchanged  an  appalled  glance. 

"  Come,  dear,  we  can't  stand  here,"  the  Scarpia  said. 

Beechy's  face  was  perfectly  white  and  its  bony  structure 
seemed  to  stand  out  under  the  flesh. 

"Did  you  see,  Aurelio?     Did  you,  Signora  Evelina?" 

"  I — I  will  never  forgive  him,  never " 

Sadly  they  accompanied  the  young  fury  home.  They 
were  grieved,  but  not  at  all  surprised. 

Senza  gelosia  I'amore  non  e. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 
THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  BOB 

BUT  that  evening  when  Cressage  came  to  take  Beechy 
out  to  drive,  he  noticed  nothing  beyond  a  certain 
pallor  which  he  himself  set  down  to  the  heat. 

They  went  to  an  Italian  restaurant  near  Covent  Gar- 
den and  dined  simply,  but  well,  with  things  she  chose. 
One  of  his  good  qualities  was  a  comparative  indifference  to 
food  and  drink,  and  the  little  meal  satisfied  him  perfectly. 

"  Why  did  the  Signora  allow  you  to  come  alone  with 
me?"  he  asked,  as  they  sat  down  in  the  small  back  room 
where  a  vivid  lithograph  of  King  Humbert  stared  down 
at  them  from  over  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I — I  told  her  I  wished  to.  I — I  want  to  talk  to  you;" 
she  answered.  "  I  wish  to  ask  you  something." 

But  Marcantonio  Bifi,  the  proprietor,  a  small  dark  man 
with  white  teeth,  and  the  most  beautiful  manners  in  the 
world,  stood  by  them,  and  the  dinner  must  be  ordered. 
Bifi  knew  of  course  who  his  beautiful  patroness  was,  for 
he,  in  his  turn,  was  a  constant  patron  of  the  opera,  and 
Beechy  had  been  to  his  restaurant  once  before. 

"  Oysters?  "  he  suggested. 

Beechy,  very  white  and  tragic  under  her  small  black 
toque,  with  sharply  cut  wings,  like  the  wings  in  Mercury's 
cap,  shook  her  head. 

. "  No,"  she  returned  in  a  sombre  voice,  "  Raw  ham, 
vegetable  soup,  spaghetti  with  tomatoes  and  roast  kid" 

"  Si,  Signora." 

281 


282  BEECHY 

"Roast  kid,  then,  and  salad.     And — Zabajoni?" 

"  Si,  Signora." 

Bifi  sped  away,  his  shabby  pumps  noiseless  on  the  bare 
floor  and  Lord  Charles  asked  her  what  Zabajoni  was. 

"  A  sort  of  hot  custard — with  Marsala  in  it.  When  I 
was  little,"  she  added,  dreamily,  "  I  loved  it  better  than 
anything — and  anybody — on  earth." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  "  Greedy  little  beast,"  he 
said.  For  several  seconds  she  looked  silently  at  his  beauti- 
fully cared-for  brown  hand  with  the  inconspicuous  seal 
ring  on  the  little  finger.  Then,  looking  up,  she  asked 
fiercely,  "  How  many  women  have  you  loved  ?  " 

He  started,  then  he  laughed,  holding  her  hand  closer  in 
his. 

"  Child,  child,  what  a  poser  for  a  poor  old  man." 

"  You  are  not  old.    Tell  me, " 

Cressage  looked  vaguely  about  the  shabby  clean  little 
room.  He  saw  the  four  vacant  tables  with  their  patched 
and  darned  cloths,  their  battered  knives  and  forks.  He 
saw  the  bare  walls,  the  ugly  green  curtains  at  the  window, 
the  black  marble  mantelpiece  and  the  hearth,  filled  with 
shavings  of  magenta  paper. 

Then  he  looked  at  Beechy. 

If  he  had  not  loved  her,  he  would  have  known  how  to 
answer,  how  to  please  her.  But  because  he  loved  her  he 
blundered  into  the  truth. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "  I've  loved  a  lot  of  women, 
but  I've  forgotten  them  all  now." 

"  Ugh!"    Her  little  grunt  was  indescribable. 

"  All  men  love — or  think  they  do — a  good  many 
times — "  he  went  on,  "  and  then  when  they  really  love,  at 
last,  they — regret  all  the  others." 


THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  BOB          283 

"  Ecco,  Signora,  real  Italian  ham,  and  Greek  olives, 
and  Salami  from  Bologna " 

Marcantonio  Bifi  set  down  the  dishes  and  stood  smiling. 

When  he  had  gone,  closing  the  door  against  the  intrusion 
of  less  distinguished  patrons,  Beechy  again  spoke. 

"  And  me — you  will  forget  me,  too,"  she  said,  tragically. 
"  And  you  will  wish  you  had  not  known  me,  too " 

Cressage  was  utterly  taken  aback. 

Jealousy  was  not  unknown  to  him,  but  he  had  done  ab- 
solutely nothing  to  make  Beechy  jealous,  and  that  this  was 
a  variety  of  the  passion  unknown  to  him  except  by  hearsay 
he  could  not  doubt. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  gently. 

Then  she  told  him. 

"  Who  was  that  woman  with  you  in  your  coach  to-day  ?  " 

So  that  was  the  trouble. 

"Ah!  where  did  you  see  us?  That  was  Mrs.  Bob 
Romney,  but — surely  you  can't  mind  my  seeing  other 
women  ?  " 

Beechy  laid  down  her  fork.  "  I — I  do.  I  mind  your 
looking  at  them,  and  talking  to  them,  and  smiling  at  them 
— and  wrinking  your  eyes  at  them — I — I  mind  everything, 
Carlo,"  she  burst  out,  her  cheeks  suddenly  burning.  "  I — I 
want  you  all  to  myself." 

She  was  splendid  in  her  strong  feeling,  more  splendid 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her  on  the  stage. 

"  Beatrice " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  close  to  him,  her 
emotion  rapidly  extending  to  him  as  he  kissed  her. 

"  You — you  madwoman!  " 

His  stammering,  inefficient  words  were  more  convinc- 
ing than  a  long  eloquent  speech. 


284  BEECHY 

For  a  moment  they  clung  together  in  all  the  bliss  of  an 
absolute  understanding.  Then  the  door  opened  and  Bifi 
appeared,  bearing  a  huge  old-fashioned  soup  tureen.  Be- 
fore the  two  could  spring  apart  the  door  was  again  shut 
and  they  were  alone. 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing  and  dashed  the  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

"  Poor  Padrone.  He  will  never  dare  come  back,"  she 
said.  "Ah,  Carlo  mio  caro,  I  am  so  happy!  Will  you  for- 
give me?  I  felt  so  little,  so  humble,  so  far  away  from  you 
to-day,  you  up  against  the  trees,  I  in  the  street.  And — she  is 
beautiful!  Forgive  me,  my  treasure."  He  pulled  his 
moustache  nervously. 

"  My  dearest — you  must  know  I  love  you,"  he  returned. 
"  I  love  you  so  that  I — I — hardly  know  myself.  And  as 
to  Mrs.  Bob  Romney — she  isn't  fit  to  touch  your  shoe. 
Fancy,"  he  added  in  obviously  sincere  amazement,  "  your 
being  jealous  of  me!" 

Beechy  gave  another  laugh  and  rose  to  look  at  herself 
in  the  green,  uneven-surfaced  glass  over  by  the  door. 

Then  she  turned,  her  hands  at  her  hair. 

"  Charles,"  she  said,  suddenly  serious,  using  his  English 
name,  "  if  you  stopped  loving  me  I  should  die.  Die,  under- 
stand?" 

He  sat  staring  at  his  knife  and  fork,  a  straight  line  be- 
tween his  eyebrows. 

"  If  you  love  me — like  that,"  he  began,  but  she  inter- 
rupted by  ringing  the  bell.  "  Hush !  Not  a  word.  I  do 
love  you!  like  that!  I  adore  you,  but — ah,  Signor  Bifi, 
the  soup,  please." 

The  proprietor  smiled  openly  at  him,  a  delightful  smile 
of  respectful  sympathy  and  protection,  and  Beechy  smiled 


THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.   BOB         285 

at  him.     She  was  not  in  the  least  embarrassed,  but  Lord 
Charles  was. 

"  Damn  the  fellow,"  he  said,  when  Bifi  had  again  closed 
the  door  on  them,  "what  does  he  mean  by  smiling  at 
you  like  that  ?  " 

"  Italians  always  enjoy  lovers,"  she  said.  "  He  is  happy 
for  us,  and — I  am  glad  he  is.  Smiles  bring  good  luck, 
dear." 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  very  happy.  After  dinner 
they  took  a  hansom  and  drove  out  Regent's  Park  'way  in 
the  moonlight,  and  by  half-past  ten  were  back  with  the 
Signora  in  Beechy's  ornate,  flower-filled  sitting-room. 

The  sunshiny,  happy,  triumphant  days  hurried  by.  The 
opera  of  course  was  over.  Beechy's  last  night  had  been  an 
ovation;  even  her  older  rivals  were  cordial  and  kind  to  her. 
She  was  for  the  time  a  kind  of  queen  of  song,  as  the  original 
minded  ha'penny  papers  called  her.  She  lingered  on  in 
London  because  she  had  promised  a  very  high-placed  old 
lady  to  sing  at  a  charity  concert  the  last  week  in  July,  the 
very  last  concert  of  a  very  late  season. 

Many  people  had  gone,  but  London  was  still  full,  and 
every  night  had  its  engagement  to  dine  or  dance. 

"  The  girl  is  a  dear,"  the  old  Duchess  of  Wight  said, 
"  and  the  story  about  Charles  Cressage  is  a  lie." 

'  The  story  about  Charles  Cressage  is  true,"  another 
powerful  person  declared,  "  and — why  not?  Kitty  Cres- 
sage is  an  idiot  and  deserves  what  she  gets.  And  the  girl 
loves  Charles  and — it  is  a  pretty  sight.  A  pity  he  can't 
marry  her,  for  upon  my  honour  I  believe  he  would !  " 

"  Ah,  the  singing-girl,"  lisped  Mrs.  Bob  Romney,  looking 
up  through  the  delicate  fringe  of  pale  gold  hair  which,  in 
spite  of  the  dictates  of  fashion,  still  decorated  her  white 


286  BEECHY 

brow,  "  isn't  she  a  lovely  young  creature?    So  pretty.    And 
Lord  Charles  is  in  love  with  her,  isn't  he?  " 

She  put  all  her  remarks  in  the  form  of  questions.  Alto- 
gether an  appealing,  wide-eyed,  helpless-seeming  woman, 
a  woman  classified  by  the  old  Duchess  of  Wight  as 
follows : 

"  Maudie  Romney  is  as  bad  as  she  can  be,  has  no  more 
morals  than  a  sparrow,  no  more  mind  than  a  chicken — the 
most  idiotic  woman  in  London.  But  she  has  two  qualities: 
she  never  gets  caught,  and  she  never  makes  other  people 
feel  ignorant." 

And  on  these  two  qualities  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Bob  got  on 
very  well  indeed. 

She  was  always  beautifully  dressed,  thanks  to  her  maid, 
"  a  perfect  wonder,  my  dear  " — and  the  Hon.  Bob's  many 
and  manifest  sins  created  for  her  a  pleasant  little  role  of 
ill-treated  wife  which  she  used  excellently  well. 

"  Poor  dear  old  Bob,"  she  would  say  brightly,  "  he  really 
is  a  dear,  you  know,"  and  then  he  or  she  to  whom  she  spoke 
usually  felt  a  thrill  of  pity.  Particularly  if  it  were  a  he. 
She  had  known  Lord  Charles  Cressage  for  years,  in  a  very 
superficial  way.  He  had  sat  next  her  at  dinners  once  or 
twice,  and  once  they  had  been  on  the  same  yacht  at  Cowes. 
But  it  so  happening  that  when  they  met  they  had  both  been 
very  busy  with  some  one  else,  they  had  never  interested  each 
other  particularly. 

This  June,  Mrs.  Bob  was  interested  in  no  one;  and  her 
nature  being  of  those  that  cannot  exist  without  a  love  affair 
of  some  kind,  she  decided  to  make  him  fall  in  love  with  her. 
It  would  be  easy,  she  was  so  very  pretty  and  so  very  experi- 
enced. Meeting  him  at  a  dinner  just  before  he  met  Beechy, 
she  asked  him  to  call  and  see  an  old  book  she  had  picked 


THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.   BOB         287 

up  somewhere  with  a  coat  of  arms  that  she  thought  was 
his,  on  its  cover. 

He  called:  the  drawing-room  was  cool  and  fragrant  with 
roses,  and  she  looked  very  lovely.  He  knew  her  to  be  ap- 
proachable, and  she  had  adorable  eyes, — slightly  made  up — 
and  he  liked  her  rather  artificial  air — of  course  he  made 
love  to  her,  without  even  troubling  to  go  slowly. 

Someone  interrupted  them  while  he  was  holding  her 
hand  and  telling  her  how  lonely  he  was,  but  they  met  the 
next  evening  at  a  ball  and  sat  for  an  hour  together  in  a  bal- 
cony looking  over  the  garden  where  honeysuckle  grew.  She 
wore  shell  pink  and  looked  really  too  fragile  and  helpless 
for  this  world.  He  made  more  love  to  her. 

Two  days  later  she  went  to  his  rooms  for  tea,  accom- 
panied by  one  Miss  Spanning,  a  morose,  flat-nosed  old  maid, 
who  knew  her  role  to  perfection,  and  at  once  produced  a 
passion  for  books  and  sat  for  an  hour  in  the  library,  where 
the  low  murmur  of  voices  reached  her  through  the  heavy 
velvet  curtain. 

Lord  Charles  was  enchanted.  He  believed  himself  to  be 
falling  in  love  with  Mrs.  Bob  and  nothing  could  be  pleas- 
anter  than  a  discreet  affair  with  the  lovely  little  blonde  who 
never  got  caught. 

But — the  next  night  he  met  Beechy  and  Mrs.  Bob  was  at 
once  forgotten. 

Alas,  that  these  matters  are  not  always  so  simple  as  they 
might  be.  Mrs.  Bob  did  not  forget  Lord  Charles.  But  she 
was  wise  in  her  way,  so  she  called  Beechy  the  beautiful 
singing-girl,  declared  Beechy's  voice  was  "  quite  too  divine  " 
— and,  in  her  busy  little  mind,  spun  webs. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 
THE  WHITE  COTTAGE 

TWO  days  before  the  concert  at  the  Duchess's  Beechy 
and  Cressage  went  to  the  country. 
It  was  a  beautiful  morning  and  the  motor  flew 
along  the  damp  road  as  if  it  had  wings.     A  motor  is  an 
unromantic  looking  thing,  but  surely  it  more  closely  than 
any  other  vehicle  can  give  to  happy  lovers  a  sense  of  the 
realisation  of  their  fancied  power  of  disembodied  flight. 

Everything  had  wings  that  day,  to  the  two  in  the  motor. 
They  had  run  away  from  everybody,  Beechy  breaking  an 
engagement  for  luncheon,  he  one  at  his  brother's  for  dinner. 
They  were  going  to  be  quite  by  themselves  all  the  long  day, 
and  now  it  was  only  nine! 

Richmond  Park  was  a  miracle  of  beauty  in  the  sunshine, 
even  the  policeman  who  stopped  them  for  speeding  was  a 
benevolent  soul  who  accepted  a  very  fat,  gold-girdled  cigar 
from  the  culprit  in  chief,  and  let  them  go  with  a  friendly 
warning. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Beechy  asked,  as  they  left  the 
park  at  the  gate  of  the  Star  and  Garter.  "You  haven't 
told  me." 

He  looked  quickly  at  her.  "  Haven't  I  ?  "  he  asked,  a 
little  embarrassed,  "  I — I  thought  I  had." 

"  No.  You  only  said  *  the  country.'  Where  are  we 
going?" 

"To  a  little  place  I  have  near  the  river — a  cottage. 

288 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  289 

Haven't  been  there  for  some  time,  and  I  thought  we  might 
have  a  look  at  it.  I  wired  out  to  them  to  have  lunch  for 
us  and  dinner — it's  a  charming  little  place, — I'll  take  you 
for  a  pull  on  the  river  afterwards." 

"  Oh,  how  perfect!  I  didn't  know  you  had  a  cottage. 
It  will  be  fun." 

He  bent  over  the  wheel,  relieved. 

It  was  so  early  that  there  were  no  people  about  but  the 
people  who  lived  in  that  part  of  the  world,  and  the  long 
white  road  was  nearly  empty. 

Not  far  from  Windsor,  near  Gatchett,  a  narrow  lane 
leads  down  to  the  river,  and  here,  in  a  quiet  reach  of  the 
river,  where  there  are  no  villas  to  be  seen,  no  house  boats, 
was  Lord  Charles  Cressage's  cottage.  The  White  Cottage, 
it  was  called.  A  long,  rambling,  one-storied  cottage,  with 
small  windows  and  a  red  roof ;  a  cottage  standing  in  an  old- 
fashioned  garden ;  a  cottage  made  of  plaster  and  wood,  but 
so  overgrown  with  roses  and  honeysuckle  that  barely  a  ves- 
tige of  its  architecture  was  visible. 

A  most  romantic  little  place,  built  thirty  years  ago  by 
a  sentimental  stock-broker  for  the  lady  of  his  heart,  bought 
fifteen  years  ago  by  a  scarcely  less  sentimental  Oxford  grad- 
uate named  Charlie  Cressage  for  the  then  lady  of  his  heart, 
and  kept  on  by  him  lafter  his  departure  as  a  useful  little 
box  though  damned  damp. 

He  was  a  trifle  ashamed  as  he  led  Beechy  in  through  the 
badly  hung  gate.  He  had  been  there  so  often  before,  and 
they  all  said,  "  Oh,  how  lovely." 

Luckily  she  said  it  in  Italian.  And  after  all,  it  was  the 
only  place  he  knew  where  they  could  be  quite  free  from 
prying  eyes  all  the  long  summer  day.  The  old  woman  who 
lived  in  the  cottage  all  the  year  round,  had  put  everything 


290  BEECHY 

in  order,  and  they  would,  he  knew,  find  the  little  rooms  full 
of  flowers.  She  was  a  wise  old  creature,  Harriet  Jane 
Taylor,  and  she  never  talked.  For  years  she  had  been  there 
whenever  he  came  down,  but  each  time,  he  knew,  he  would 
find  a  new  parlour-maid. 

Before  the  cottage  door  there  was  a  little  terrace  of 
oiled  red-brick,  and  at  the  corners  of  the  terrace  terra-cotta 
water  pots  brought  from  Italy  held  great  clumps  of  pink 
geraniums.  Lord  Charles  hated  red  ones.  And  before 
them,  as  they  stood  looking  down  over  the  velvety  lawn,  the 
broad  Thames  flowed  softly. 

"  Oh,  Carlo,  what  a  heavenly  place,"  Beechy  said,  tak- 
ing off  her  straw  hat -and  running  the  pins  ruthlessly  through 
the  roses  on  it.  "  The  sky  is  nearly  as  blue  as  in  Italy !  " 

"  Every  bit  as  blue,  darling.  Nothing  so  blue  as  a  real 
good  English  sky,  I  always  say.  Kiss  me." 

She  put  up  her  lips  as  a  child  does,  but  she  was  thinking 
of  the  scene  before  her,  not  of  him. 

"  The  trees  across  the  river, — whose  are  they,  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  They  belong  to  Sir  William  Londale, 
— the  late  Prime  Minister." 

"Londale?  He  must  be  Cricket's  father.  Oh,  Carlo, 
is  he  Cricket's  father?" 

This  was  a  new  way  of  regarding  the  grim  old  man  in 
question,  and  Cressage  laughed. 

"  Bambina — how  do  I  know?  He  has  children,  I  know. 
One  of  the  girls  married  cne  of  the  Swedish  attaches  the 
other  'day.  Who  is  '  Cricket '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  the  most  adorable  boy.  A  perfect  dear.  He 
writes  me  such  funny  poetry,  and — ah,  well,  a  charming  boy. 
He  was  '  stroke '  in  his  Varsity  boat  this  year,"  she  added, 
using  the  English  terms  with  much  importance. 


THE   WHITE  COTTAGE  291 

Cressage  smiled  at  her.  A  quite  new  smile  this  that  no 
one  else  ever  saw.  His  mother,  had  she  been  alive,  might 
have  remembered  it. 

"  Come  in,  dear,  and  see  the  cottage." 

She  loved  it  all;  the  deep  window-niches,  the  rose-col- 
oured chintz  with  green  leaves  all  over  it,  the  oak  floor 
with  rugs  on  it  (like  the  floor  at  Wychley!),  the  queer  old 
jugs  and  vases  filled  with  garden  flowers,  the  low  book- 
shelves full  of  books.  And  on  the  walls,  the  coloured 
prints  of  old  coaching  days.  All,  everything  pleased  her, 
and  her  enthusiasm  pleased  him.  It  was  rather  unusual  to 
find,  nowadays,  a  woman  whom  things  sincerely  surprised 
and  delighted. 

Harriet  Jane  Taylor,  a  blinking  old  woman  with  reddish 
grey  hair  and  an  asthmatic  croak  in  her  voice,  gave  her 
master  the  news  of  the  place. 

William  Emmens,  her  nephew,  who  looked  after  the  lawn 
and  the  garden,  was  married.  He  wanted  his  wife  to  do 
permanent  parlour-maid's  work  at  the  cottage,  but  she, 
Harriet  Jane  Taylor,  thought  better  to  say  no  to  this  plan. 
"  I  think  better,"  she  said  primly,  "  to  change" 

Cressage  frowned.  "Yes,  yes,  quite  right.  Nothing  has 
happened  in  the  way  of  damages  to  the  place,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No,  sir."     Harriet  Jane  Taylor  always  called  him  Sir. 

Beechy  wandered  from  window  to  window  while  they 
talked,  and  afterwards  she  was  taken  to  see  the  other  rooms. 

There  were  three  little  bedrooms,  all  done  up  in  light 
chintzes,  pretty  pictures  on  the  walls,  pretty  silk  coverlets 
on  the  beds. 

"  Do  you  stay  here  often  ? "  said  Beechy. 

He  turned  away.  "  No,  not  often.  I  used  to  at  one 
time — used  to  bring  people  down  for  a  day  or  two." 


292  BEECHY 

Beechy  was  far  from  ignorant  of  life  and  if  she  had  been 
asked  what  she  supposed  his  life  to  have  been  her  answer 
would  have  been  fairly  correct  and  very  clearly  expressed. 

But  this  dear  little  place  whither  he  had  brought  her 
seemed  innocent  and  wholesome,  and  she  thought  nothing 
more  of  it  than  that  it  was  an  adorable  place  that  was 
his.  When  they  had  gone  over  the  small  domain  they 
had  their  lunch  by  the  rose-hung  window  in  the  dining- 
room. 

The  new  parlour-maid,  who  did  not  even  know  her  em- 
ployer's name,  watched  Beechy  curiously. 

"  The  lady's  face  is  familiar-like,"  she  said  to  Harriet 
Jane  Taylor,  as  she  waited  for  the  asparagus,  "  I've  seen 
it  in  a  paper  sommeres." 

"  I  daresay,"  returned  the  old  woman  drily. 

There  was  chicken  to  eat,  and  delicate  potatoes,  and  as- 
paragus, and  a  raspberry  tart  with  a  junket. 

Beechy  enjoyed  everything. 

"  It  is  lovely  here,"  she  said  at  last,  as  they  sat  over 
their  coffee  and  he  smoked  cigarettes.  "  I  should  like  to 
stay." 

Cressage  lit  a  match,  but  it  went  out,  and  he  lit  another 
for  the  fresh  cigarette  between  his  lips. 

"Would  you?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  week,  or  two  weeks — I  should  not  mind  the 
loneliness  if  you  were  here.  Is  there  a  piano?  Yes,  of 
course.  And  then  the  river, — running  water  is  cheerful;  it 
is  the  great  lapping,  struggling  sea  that  is  sad." 

"Don't  you  like  the  sea?" 

"  I  love  to  be  on  it,  but  not  by  it.  It  climbs  and  climbs, 
and  crawls  and  crawls,  trying  to  get  out,  and  up  on  the 
land, — it  makes  me  feel  very  tired,  as  if  I  wanted  to  help 


THE   WHITE  COTTAGE  293 

It  out  as  one  does  a  dog.  But  this  river  here — it  goes 
hurrying  on,  cheerily — yes,  I  love  it." 

Cressage  did  not  answer.  He  played  with  the  match-box 
and  pulled  at  his  moustache;  then  he  drank  more  wine. 
Beechy,  engrossed  by  her  own  thoughts,  monologued  on 
and  on,  without  noticing  his  distraction. 

Presently  a  clock  struck  two  and  he  jumped  up. 

"  Come  along,  let's  go  out  into  the  garden,  shall  we  ?  " 

It  was  warm,  and  the  sky  had  clouded  over.  Beechy  took 
her  parasol  and  they  went  out.  In  the  afternoon  heat  the 
flowers  gave  out  their  strong  drowsy  scents  as  they  drooped 
a  little  on  their  stalks. 

The  china-asters  and  the  peonies  alone  seemed  not  to 
mind  the  heat,  but  the  wall-flowers  drooped,  the  lilies 
looked  delicate  and  pale,  the  carnations  top-heavy  and 
sleepy. 

On  the  edge  of  the  river  stood  a  small  arbour  over- 
grown with  creepers.  Here  they  sat  down  in  long  chairs 
prepared  by  the  careful  Harriet  Jane. 

Beechy  leaned  back  against  a  cool  little  green-linen  pillow 
and  shut  her  eyes.  "  I  am  so  sleepy,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
mind  if  I  go  to  sleep?" 

She  yawned  widely,  showing  her  glistening  white  teeth 
and  a  curling  pink  tongue  like  a  puppy's. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  he  said  absently.  "  Heavens, 
it's  warm!  " 

Beechy  watched  him  through  her  lashes.  How  adorable 
he  was,  and  how  noble,  and  how  beautiful.  She  was  pre- 
fectly  happy.  The  heat  to-day,  she  reflected,  made  him 
pale,  and  a  lock  of  black  hair  fell  over  his  brow  as  it  had 
done  that  evening  at  Lady  Cossie's. 

Her  eyes  closed.    The  smell  of  wall  flowers  reached  her 


294  BEECHY 

as  it  had  that  same  evening, — the  wall-flowers  round  the  sun- 
dial— she  thought  in  Italian — "  How  does  one  say  it  in  Eng- 
lish ?  Ah,  yes,  of  course,  '  time-table  ' " 

She  was  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  she  was  alone,  and  the  heat  was  very 
oppressive.  She  pushed  back  her  damp  hair,  powdered  her 
face  with  a  tiny  puff  she  carried  in  her  purse,  and  rising, 
stretched  her  arms  at  full  length  and  yawned  again. 

Then  as  she  was  about  to  go  to  look  for  Cressage  she 
caught  sight  of  a  letter  lying  on  the  floor,  and  picked  it 
up.  What  pretty  paper! 

For  a  moment  she  stared  at  the  little  square  mauve  sheet 
with  the  complicated  gold  monogram  on  it,  in  innocent 
admiration,  and  then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  name  at  the  foot 
of  it.  Slowly  she  read  the  whole  thing. 

"  So  sorry,  dear  Lord  Charles,"  the  affected,  pointed 
writing  said,  "  to  have  missed  you  yesterday.  Why  didn't 
you  telephone  first?  Will  you  come  on  Thursday  at  five? 
I  have  nothing  of  importance  to  say  to  you,  but  I  feel  that 
we  are  friends,  and  a  sight  of  you  will  do  me  good.  Venez 
done,  ami  I 

"  Yours, 
"  MAUDIE  ROMNEY." 

For  a  moment  Beechy  stood  as  if,  as  the  phrase  goes,  she 
had  turned  to  stone. 

Then,  dropping  the  letter  where  she  had  found  it,  she 
went  slowly  out  into  the  dazzling  sunlight  of  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
"  MADNESS  IN  THE  BRAIN  " 

THE  next  day  Beechy  did  not  see  Cressage.  He 
called  in  the  afternoon,  but  she  was  lying  down 
and  told  the  puzzled  Signora  to  tell  him  she  had  a 
headache.  But  it  was  not  a  headache  that  made  her  pale 
and  heavy-eyed.  It  was  jealousy. 

All  the  afternoon  she  went  over  and  over  in  her  mind 
the  events  of  the  last  few  days.  Charles  had  told  her  that 
she  was  absurd,  that  night  at  the  Italian  restaurant,  and 
she  had  known  that  he  was  right.  His  voice  had  expressed 
something  more  even  than  indifference  to  Mrs.  Romney's 
charms;  it  had  expressed  a  kind  of  scorn.  Plainly  she  had 
understood  that  he  had  for  the  pretty  golden-headed  little 
lady  none  of  the  respect  she  felt  in  his  every  word  to  her. 
And  for  the  time  that  had  been  enough;  she  had  been 
quite  comforted. 

But  in  the  mauve  letter  Mrs.  Romney  had  "  Been  so 
sorry  to  miss  him " — "  Why  had  he  not  telephoned  ?  " — 
"  She  felt  that  they  were  friends  " — "  A  sight  of  him  would 
do  her  good."  Much  intimacy  crowded  into  one  small 
sheet  of  paper. 

To  herself  Beechy  called  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Bob  several 
very  shocking  and  unqualified  names,  but  they  did  not 
greatly  comfort  her,  for,  granted  that  Mrs.  Bob  was  all 
these  things,  what  good  did  her  being  so,  do? 

Beechy  knew  that  men  liked  such  women,  loved  them. 

295 


296  BEECHY 

They  were,  she  believed,  brilliant  in  conversation  and 
learned  in  all  the  arts  of  making  men  love  them. 

As  she  lay  that  afternoon  in  her  darkened  room,  her 
tortured  imagination  pictured  Mrs.  Bob  as  the  most  en- 
chanting of  women.  She  was  as  pathetic  as  the  woman  in 
"  La  Traviata,"  as  seductive  as  Carmen,  as  beautiful  as 
Dante's  Beatrice.  She  was  as  witty  as  Madame  'de  Pompa- 
dour, an  historical  heroine  greatly  admired  by  Beechy. 

All  these  things  she  was,  and  Carlo,  her  Carlo,  was  at 
that  moment  with  her,  in  a  rose-coloured  drawing-room, 
alone ! 

If  Cressage  had  come  at  five  Beechy  would  have  flown 
to  his  arms  and  begged  for  his  forgiveness.  But  he  had 
come  at  half-past  three,  thus,  she  concluded,  saving  time  to 
keep  his  tryst  with  Mrs.  Bob  at  five. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  utterly  forgotten  Mrs.  Bob's 
note,  not  even  noticing  its  loss,  and  when,  towards  six,  he 
did  appear  at  her  door  it  was  because,  unable  to  see  Beechy, 
an'd  moody  and  restless  as  he  had  been  of  late,  he  found 
himself  in  her  street  at  that  time,  and  remembered  that  she 
had  asked  him  to  call. 

"At  least  she'll  be  glad  to  see  me,"  he  thought,  as  he 
followed  the  servant  upstairs. 

Beechy's  demeanour  the  day  before,  after  her  nap  in  the 
arbour,  had  puzzled  and  distressed  him.  She  was  silent, 
brooding,  and  sullen-eyed.  When  he  asked  her  what  the 
matter  was,  she  lied,  saying  that  nothing  was  the  matter. 

At  tea  she  had  hardly  spoken,  and  when  he  asked  her  to 
sing  she  refused,  saying  that  she  was  too  tired. 

When  it  grew  cooler  he  took  her  on  the  river,  and  she 
lay  on  the  cushions  in  the  boat  watching  the  crimsoning 
sky  and  hardly  hearing  him  when  he  spoke  to  her. 


"MADNESS  IN  THE  BRAIN"          297 

The  man  was  utterly  puzzled,  and  that  he  at  last,  after 
repeated  efforts  to  sweeten  her  mood,  gave  it  up  and  sub- 
sided into  a  silence  as  sullen  as  hers,  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at. 

He  was  an  undisciplined,  headstrong,  spoiled  creature, 
who  never  before  in  his  life  had  found  himself  in  his  pres- 
ent position.  He  loved  her  with  an  almost  violent  force, 
and  she  had  consigned  him  to  the  role  of  friend,  pal,  con- 
stant companion. 

When  this  had  happened  to  him  before,  he  had  simply 
gone  away.  But  Beechy  he  could  not  leave,  because  he 
loved  her  too  much.  At  any  price  he  must  see  her,  but 
the  price  he  was  paying  was  a  heavy  one  and  he  felt  his 
position,  although  he  accepted  it  in  good  faith,  to  be  a 
ridiculous  if  not  a  false  one. 

He  pulled  up  stream  for  half  an  hour  and  then  shipping 
his  oars  let  the  little  boat  float  back  over  the  radiant  water. 

She  sat  hatless,  gazing  past  or  through  him  at  the  sky, 
the  loose  hair  round  her  brow  curling  into  little  damp  rings, 
her  mouth  set. 

"  Beatrice," — the  infinite  longing  in  his  voice  stirred 
her  and  she  started. 

"  Dear — what  is  it?  Tell  me.  It  makes  me  so  horribly 
unhappy  to  see  you  so — so  different.  It  frightens  me.  Is 
it — that  you  do  not  really  love  me?" 

She  frowned  quickly  and  then  laughed.  "  Mace fief 
No,  of  course  not.  It  is — it  is  that  I  am  a  fool,  I  sup- 
pose,— that  someone  else  made  the  world  and  I  don't  like 
it » 

Reaching  out,  he  pulled  the  boat  under  the  long  branches 
of  a  tree  that  hung  far  over  the  water. 
"  Beatrice — let  me  come  and  sit  near  you,"  he  continued 


298  BEECHY 

with  wonderful  patience  for  a  man  of  his  temperament, 
"and  tell  me.  Surely  you  can  trust  me?" 

But  she  waved  him  away  nervously.  "  No,  no,  let's  get  on. 
I  hate  being  here  in  the  dark — I  want  to  see  the  sunset." 

He  let  go  the  branch  and  the  boat  darted  under  its  dip- 
ping leaves  out  into  mid-stream. 

He  was  very  angry  now,  and  said  no  more. 

She  sat  dragging  her  right  hand  through  the  water,  her 
eyes  bent  to  her  lap. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  gave  a  little  cry.  "  Oh,  Cricket ! 
It  is  Cricket!" 

In  her  excitement  she  tried  to  stand  up  and  he  bade  her 
sharply  to  sit  still,  looking  round  as  he  spoke.  On  the 
bank  near  them,  nearly  opposite  the  White  Cottage,  stood  a 
tall,  slight  red-headed  youth  in  flannels. 

"  Oh,  please  pull  in, — I  want  to  speak  to  him,"  she  ex- 
claimed, adding  in  a  calling  voice,  "  It  is  me,  Cricket, — 
Beechy!  " 

The  youth  waved  his  cap.  "You!"  he  cried,  "what 
luck.  How  are  you  ?  " 

Cressage  pulled  up  to  the  landing,  and  Beechy  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said ;  "  it's  such  a  long 
time — I  was  telling  Lord  Charles  about  you  this  very  day — 
get  in  and  tell  me  about  Switzerland " 

But  young  Londale  stood  shyly  there  on  the  landing, 
his  fiery  hair  glowing  in  the  universal  glow  of  things,  and 
made  no  move. 

"  Suppose,"  remarked  Cressage,  politely,  "  you  introduce 
Mr.  Londale  to  me!  " 

Beechy  burst  out  laughing,  apologised,  and  in  another 
minute  the  three  were  floating  along  together. 


"MADNESS  IN   THE  BRAIN"  299 

"  We  have  had  luncheon  here,  and  are  to  dine,  and  then 
we  go  back  to  town  in  the  motor,"  Beechy  explained,  and 
Cressage  making  the  best  of  a  bad  job,  let  her  chatter  on 
uninterrupted.  "  Do  come  and  let  me  show  you  the  cot- 
tage. It  is  too  charming,"  she  went  on  in  her  broken  Eng- 
lish, "  that  is  unless  you  are  busy " 

Cressage  listened  in  amazement.  He  could  not  be  jealous 
of  this  ugly  red-headed  stripling,  but  how  was  it  that  her 
ill-temper  had  fled  at  her  first  sight  of  the  red-head? 

Was  it  after  all, — the  thought  smote  him  hard,  so  that 
he  caught  his  breath, — that  she  was  too  young  to  be  really 
happy  with  him?  That  her  youth  cried  out  for  youth  to 
amuse  it?  He  set  his  teeth  hard  and  then  spoke,  very 
gently: 

"Perhaps  you  would  dine  with  us,  Mr.  Londale?" 

Cricket  started  and  hesitated. 

"Oh — you  are  very  kind,"  he  said,  but  Beechy  burst  in: 

"You  must,  oh  yes,  you  will  dine  with  us,"  she  said, 
"  that  is  ver'  good  plan !  " 

Her  pleasure  was  perfectly  genuine  and  it  was  another 
blow  for  Cressage. 

However,  they  dined  quite  merrily,  Beechy  doing  nearly 
all  the  talking,  and  after  dinner  she  sang. 

Cressage,  thoroughly  unhappy,  walked  up  and  down  the 
little  terrace  and  smoked,  while  her  beautiful  voice  floated 
out  through  the  open  windows. 

"  I  will  leave  them  together,"  he  thought,  bitterly,  "  I 
am  too  old  for  them." 

Later  it  was  he  himself  who  asked  the  youth  to  go  back 
to  town  with  them  in  the  motor.  This  he  did,  hoping  that 
it  might  hurt  Beechy,  but  it  did  not,  and  he  saw  it. 

She  was  sincerely  relieved  to  have  the  tete-a-tete  inter- 


300  BEECHY 

rupted,  for  she  dared  not  mention  Mrs.  Bob  to  him,  and 
she  could  not  force  herself  to  feign  happiness. 

Nine  o'clock  came,  and  Harriet  Jane  Taylor,  whose  ex- 
pressionless face  betrayed  none  of  the  surprise  she  must 
have  felt  at  the  unexpected  appearance  at  the  cottage  of  a 
second  gentleman,  curtsied  to  them  at  the  door. 

The  homeward  ride  was  rather  noisy,  for  Beechy  sat  be- 
hind with  Cricket  and  they  chattered  and  laughed  without 
ceasing. 

Cressage  left  them  at  the  door  of  her  hotel  and  went 
directly  to  his  rooms. 

As  he  entered  Mrs.  Romney's  drawing-room  the  next 
afternoon  after  having  failed  to  see  Beechy,  the  remembrance 
of  the  event  of  the  day  before  gave  an  added  tenderness  to 
his  reception  of  his  hostess's  greeting.  She,  at  least,  was 
glad  to  see  him. 

Beechy,  that  evening  at  a  dinner  at  the  Carlton,  led  the 
conversation  with  one  of  her  neighbours  to  the  subject  of 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Romney. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Maudie,"  the  man  said,  "  yes,  she  is  pretty. 
Lots  of  fellows  have  been  mad  about  her.  Yes,  lovely  hair, 
but  rather  too  untidy  to  suit  me.  Bob?  Oh,  Bob's  a  good 
old  ass, — not  half  bad,  but  an  awful  ass,  you  know." 

"  I  have  heard  Lord  Charles  Cressage  talk  about  her," 
Beechy  went  on,  cheerfully,  eating  salad,  "  he  admires  her 
very  much." 

The  man  to  whom  she  spoke  had  happened  in  at  Mrs. 
Bob's  that  afternoon.  He  gave  a  sudden  chuckle. 

"  Yes,  so  I  gather,"  he  said,  in  all  innocence,  for  he  had 
just  come  back  to  England  from  Canada,  and  had  heard 
no  gossip  about  Cavaleone  and  le  beau  Charles  as  some  poly- 
glot ladies  liked  to  call  him. 


"MADNESS  IN   THE  BRAIN"          301 

Beechy  looked  at  him,  smiling.  "  How  did  you — gazzer 
it?" 

"  I  called  there  this  afternoon,  to  take  her  a  package  from 
a  chap  in  Canada,  and  there  sat  'is  Ludship  as  snug  as  you 
please,  holding  some  silk  for  her  to  wind.  I've  held  silk 
for  her  in  my  day,  too,"  he  went  on.  "  She  never  sews 
but  she  always  has  silk  to  be  wound.  Little  devil,  she's  jolly 
attractive, — something  about  her — hard  to  explain — pretti- 
est hands  I  ever  saw,  little  white  things  no  bigger  than  a 
child's." 

"  Perhaps  that's  why  she  winds  silk,"  laughed  Beechy, 
adding,  "  Mrs.  Morrow,  your  other  neighbour,  has  very 
pretty  hands,  too.  Better  talk  to  her  a  little,  'adn't  you?" 
She  went  on  with  her  dinner,  talking  now  to  her  other  neigh- 
bour, one  of  the  French  Embassy  youths,  with  the  greatest 
composure.  What  they  talked  about  she  could  never  recall. 

When  she  went  home  she  found  roses  and  a  note  from 
Cressage. 

"  Beloved,"  he  had  written.  "  I  was  so  sorry  to  miss 
you.  How  is  your  poor  head?  May  I  come  to-morrow 
morning?  The  days  when  I  cannot  see  you  are  unbearable. 
Telephone  me  when  you  come  in,  I  will  stay  at  the  club 
until  twelve.  I  love  you  more  than  the  whole  world. 
Charles." 

Ordinarily  his  letter,  written  in  faulty  Italian,  filled  her 
with  the  tenderest  joy.  His  mistakes  were  delicious  to  her, 
a  badly  spelt  word  would  be  kissed. 

But  to-night  she  burst  into  a  sneering  laugh,  tore  the 
paper  into  small  bits  and  tossed  it  into  the  waste-paper 
basket.  Then  she  rang. 

"  You  may  have  these  roses,"  she  said  to  her  maid,  "  the 
scent  makes  my  head  ache." 


302  BEECHY 

After  which,  with  an  angry  glance  at  the  telephone,  she 
went  to  bed. 

A  little  later  he  called  her  up,  to  be  told  by  the  maid 
that  the  Signorina  had  gone  to  bed  and  was  asleep. 

In  the  morning  he  came. 

She  put  on  a  tea-gown  and  went  to  see  him. 

He  stood  by  the  window. 

"  I  wish  to  know,"  he  began  abruptly,  "  what  has  hap- 
pened to  make  you  treat  me  like  this  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  affectedly.     "  Like — what  ?  " 

"You  refuse  to  see  me — you  will  not  telephone  to  me — 
you — you  treat  me  like  a  dog.  Why?" 

Never  had  she  so  admired  him  as  at  that  moment.  But 
she  laughed  and  picked  up  a  book  that  was  lying  on  the 
table.  "  You  are  absurd,"  she  said. 

"  That,"  he  returned,  "  is  true.  I  am  absurd — or  I  have 
been.  I  am  not  going  to  be  absurd  any  longer.  I  love 
you  and  you  know  it.  I  refuse  to  be  your  plaything  any 
longer.  If  you  love  me  you  must  cease  this — nonsense.  If 
you  don't  love  me,  I  will  go.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Her  heart  beat  furiously  at  the  ring  in  his  voice.  He 
did  love  her  or  he  could  not  speak  like  that.  And  she 
adored  him.  She  made  a  step  towards  him,  and  as  she  did 
so  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

She  unhooked  the  receiver.  "Yes — yes, — yes,  I  am  Sig- 
norina Cavaleone — ah,"  she  gave  a  little  laugh  of  greeting, 
"  thanks  so  much,  Mrs.  Romney.  Yes,  me  too,  I  'ave 
wished  to  know  you — thanks — yes,  I  'ope  so — yes,  Lord 
Charles  is  'ere — but  of  course^  of  course!  One  mo- 
ment  " 

She  turned  and  said,  so  carelessly  that  he  was  completely 
hoodwinked,  "  Mrs.  Romney  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 


"MADNESS  IN   THE  BRAIN"  303 

Mrs.  Romney  was  alone;  her  old  man  had  deserted  her 
for  the  day  and  night,  and  would  Lord  Charles  come  and 
dine  with  her  and  Miss  Spanning,  and  take  them  on  to  the 
Duchess's  concert  to  hear  that  exquisite  Cavaleone  sing? 
His  servant  had  told  her  where  he  had  gone — would  he  be 
a  perfect  dear  and  have  mercy  on  two  lone  women? 

He  looked  round  as  she  spoke. 

Beechy  was  bending  over  a  great  sheaf  of  lilies  that  had 
just  been  brought  to  her. 

"Look,"  she  whispered,  "  from  Cricket!" 

Yes.     Lord  Charles  would  be  enchanted  to  come. 

"At  eight-fifteen,  I  suppose?  But,  dear  lady,  the 
pleasure  is  all  on  my  side — good-bye,  until  this  evening,  then. 
Yes.  Good-bye." 

He  was  in  the  state  of  mind  when  a  man  would  be  jealous 
of  a  wooden  Indian. 

"  Ah,  young  Londale  sends  you  flowers,  too,  does  he  ?  A 
conquest  worthy  of  your  bow  and  spear,  my  dear." 

"  He  is  good  and  kind  and  I  like  him,"  she  flashed  back, 
furiously. 

Cressage  laughed  as  very  angry  people  laugh. 

"  Good !  Well,  he  will  no  doubt  follow  his  lilies  shortly 
and  I'll  be  off.  Good-bye.  We  shall  meet  at  the  concert." 

"Yes." 

She  found  him  suddenly  quite  calm. 

.  "  You  must  introduce  me  to  Mrs.  Romney,"  she  said 
politely.  "  She  was  very  nice  to  me  over  the  telephone,  and 
I  should  like  to  know  her " 

He  stared,  then  bowed.  So  she  was  no  longer  even  jeal- 
ous? "I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said,  "you  have  one  or 
two  things  in  common.  A  rivederci." 


O 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE  DUCHESS'S  CONCERT 

LD  Mrs.  Wauchope  on  the  terrace  of  the  Casino 
at  Aix-les-Bains,  received,  a  fortnight  later,  the 
following  letter  from  her  son: 


"  My  dear  little  much  missed  Mother.  Are  you  sitting 
like  a  quaint  olden-time  lady  in  your  silken  gown  and  lace 
cap  among  all  the  gilded  vice  of  our  beloved  old  Aix?  Do 
the  wicked  coquettes  and  cocottes  stand  and  stare  at  you  in 
surprise  at  your  survival,  as  they  did  last  year  ?  And  'do  you 
love  it  all  (the  place,  not  the  sinful  people),  as  much  as 
ever? 

"  It  is  a  heavy  responsibility  to  send  one's  charming  young 
Mother  all  alone  to  Aix!  And  your  going  there  puts  me  in 
an  awkward  position.  How  explain  that  you,  well  known 
to  be  goutless,  and  innocent  of  all  the  ills  that  other  people 
sport  when  bent  on  frivolity  of  furrin'  watering  places — 
insist  on  going  to  Aix  for  July  because  it  amuses  you?  No 
one  ever  does  anything  because  it  amuses  him  or  her.  Real 
ladies  go  to  Aix  for  gout,  to  Marienbad — God  bless  him — 
for  their  digestion,  to  Paris  for  a  change  of  air.  I  alone  of 
all  young  men  have  an  old  mother  who  goes  to  Aix  on  sprees 
by  herself! 

"  Lady  Charles  pities  me,  but  she  alone.  By  the  way, 
she  sends  you  her  love  and  best  thanks  for  the  cheque 
(which  you  forgot  to  sign  and  for  which  I  gave  her  an- 
other), and  will  write  soon.  She  says  Sky  Hill  is  doing 

304 


THE  DUCHESS'S  CONCERT  305 

very  well,  and  I  should  think  it  might  well  be.  Friday  of 
last  week  Esther  Duchess  gave  a  concert  for  it  in  her  gilded 
halls,  and  Cavaleone  sang.  She  sang  divinely,  and  looked 
like  a  figure  of  tragedy  as  she  did  it.  A  marvellous  evening. 
You  remember  what  I  told  you  about  her  and  that  enchant- 
ing rascal,  Charles  Cressage?  Lady  Charles  told  me,  so  I 
know  it  to  have  been  true. 

"  Well,  trouble  is  brewing  there.  In  the  first  place 
Cressage  looks  ten  years  older  and  as  black  as  your  hat 
(your  best  black  velvet  one), — and  in  the  second  place  he 
has  been  having  a  violent  affair  with  Maude  Romney.  Last 
night  as  I  was  sitting  humbly  wedged  between  Lady  Ascott 
and  the  very  richest  recent  American,  in  came  Charles  with 
Maudie  and  Mary  Spanning  in  one  of  her  old  frocks,  and 
Maudie  was  radiant,  and  so  helpless  and  sweet  as  would 
have  done  your  heart  good  to  see.  She  beamed,  she  drooped, 
she  waggled  her  eyelids,  she  went  through  all  her  little  tricks 
quite  nicely  and  without  a  single  misstep. 

"They  sat  near  me,  and  I  watched  them.  I  had  not 
seen  my  dear  Beechy,  as  she  lets  me  call  her,  for  some  time, 
and  when,  after  the  Spanish  baritone  chap,  she  stepped  out 
on  the  stage,  we  all  simply  roared  with  delight.  She  is  a 
very  wonderful  girl,  and,  I  believe,  good.  She  wore  black, 
and  looked  more  nearly  plain  than  I  had  ever  seen  her. 

"  But  she  sang!  She  was  billed  for  two  songs,  the  dear 
old  '  Habanera '  with  its  nice  old-fashioned  deviltry,  and 
'  Fors  e  Lui.'  I,  of  course  versayed  des  larmes.  It  was 
amazing.  And  then  when  we  roared  like  starving  beasts 
for  more  she  silenced  us  with  a  gesture  and  said,  peering 
down  at  us  in  our  semi-obscurity,  '  If  Mr.  Wauchope  will 
kindly  h'accompany  me ' 

"  And  behold  your  little  Lex.     A  proud  moment  for  your 


306  BEECHY 

son's  mother's  son!  My  old  ladies  heaved  and  loosened  me 
from  my  pen,  and  up  I  went  straight  into  glory.  She 
thanked  me  so  charmingly,  and  led  me  to  the  piano,  and  then 
we  talked  a  little,  and  discussed  what  I  could  play  by  heart, 
and  then  she  sang  again. 

"  She  sang  Faure's  '  Seranata  Toscana,'  and  one  of  Landon 
Ronald's  songs,  about  a  road,  and  dear  old  Gounod's  dear 
old  '  Ceque  je  suis  sans  toi ' — Ah,  the  way  she  sang  that 
made  me  sit  up  and  wonder.  I  knew  she  was  suffering 
horribly  and  it  hurt  me  so  that  I  nearly  stopped  playing  and 
bade  her  be  silent. 

"The  audience  clapped  till  its  hands  nearly  dropped  off. 
She  sang  a  Neapolitan  song,  and  then  she  stopped. 

"  Up  went  the  lights  and  she  made  her  pretty,  half-shy 
curtsies  that  the  gallery  gods  so  love.  I,  too,  made  beauti- 
ful bows.  And  as  I  bowed  I  watched  our  old  Lothario. 
It  is  absurd  to  call  Charles  Cressage  old,  but  compared  to 
her  in  her  glorious  youth,  he  with  his  five  hundred  great 
loves  seems  a  worn-out  dotard. 

(You  will  observe,  Mutterchen,  that  I  am  gnawed  by  an 
unhappy  passion  for  her  myself!) 

"There  he  sat,  Lothario,  frowning  savagely,  his  damned 
good-looking  face  as  white  as  your  hat.  (Your  frivolous 
one  with  the  violets  in  it).  And  she,  too,  looked  at  him. 
She  would  not  sing  again,  and  Wierzbicki  played,  accord- 
ing to  the  programme.  He  played  all  over  the  place,  as 
usual — no  restraint;  but  he  is  great  in  his  way  and  we 
clapped. 

"  Then  came  Loria  in  magnificent  voice ;  truly  the  glory 
of  the  century  as  far  as  voice  is  concerned,  and  she  sang 
like  an  angel. 

"  After  her  we  made  an  awful  rumpus,  but  she  was  going 


THE  DUCHESS'S  CONCERT  307 

to  sail  for  America  the  next  day,  and  refused  with  her 
quarter  of  a  century  old  childlike  gesture,  expressing  that 
her  poor  little  throat  was  tired. 

"  Just  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar  in  came  a  note  for  Cava- 
leone.  She  gave  it  to  me,  and  guess  whom  it  was  from! 
Lady  Charles!  Surely  the  ways  of  the  Great  God  Chance 
are  past  finding  out. 

'  Will  you  not,  my  dear,'  Lady  Charles  wrote,  '  make 
a  tiny  little  speech  for  Sky  Hill  ?  There  are  many  million- 
aires in  your  audience,  and  after  singing  to  them,  surely  you 
can  ask  what  you  like.  The  Duchess  has  telephoned  me  to 
ask  you  to  do  this. 

"'Your  friend, 

" '  CATHERINE  CRESSAGE.' 

"  It  was  dramatic. 

"The  concert  was  over,  the  audience,  now  brightly 
lighted  by  those  distressing  gilded  candelabra  the  old  Duke 
was  so  proud  of,  chattered  preparatory  to  rising. 

"'Yes,'  I  said,  'do.' 

"  She  nodded,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  The  rest  you  will 
have  seen  and  read  in  the  papers.  That's  all  I  will  tell 
you. 

"  I  struck  a  sharp  chord  on  the  piano  to  attract  their  at- 
tention, and  she  went  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  stage.  Be- 
hind her  hung  an  old  yellow  satin  brocade  curtain.  The 
effect  of  her,  all  black  but  her  beautiful  head  and  shoulders 
and  arms,  must  have  been  magnificent. 

1 '  Ladies,'  she  began,  in  a  frightened  voice — '  and  gentle- 
men.' 

"  There  was  a  hush  you  might  have  seen. 

'  I  have  just  receive  a  letter  from  Lady  Kitty  Cressage ' 
— everyone  sat  up  with  a  little  jerk. 


308  BEECHY 

11  Then  she  read  the  letter,  if  you  please,  every  word  of 
it,  in  her  funny  accent,  each  word  distinct.  When  she 
paused  there  was  a  roar  of  laughter.  Oh,  for  rank,  human 
emotionality  commend  me  to  an  English  after-dinner  audi- 
ence. She  had  not  meant  to  make  them  laugh,  and  for  a 
moment  stood  looking  puzzled. 

"  Then  she  went  on  '  About  Sky  '111 — you  all  know  what 
it  is.  A  beautiful  house  on  a  hill  in  Surrey  where  mothers 
— without — without  'usbands  may  leave  their  babies  while 
they  work,  and  come  to  stay  whenever  they  can.  Lady 
Kitty  has  told  me.  The  Society  pays  the  tickets.  And — 
there  are  so  many  mothers  without  'usbands * 

"  Not  an  '  h '  'did  she  have  in  the  whole  speech.  Luckily 
we  were  all  of  the  very  double  cream  of  English  society,  or 
we  should  have  been  shocked  about  the  'usbandless  mothers. 
A  suburban  audience  could  not  have  borne  it. 

"  On  she  went,  explaining  just  a  little  about  the  place — 
and  a  most  sensible  charity  it  seems  to  me — and  at  last  she 
ended  with  the  words,  '  So  now  I  will  sing  little  French 
song — "  A  vingt  ans  " — to  remember  you  all  of  when  you 
had  twenty  years.'  And  then  I'm  blessed  if  she  didn't  trans- 
late the  dear  old  song  from  beginning  to  end,  seeking  each 
word  in  a  kind  of  exquisite  hesitation  as  if  fearing  to  wrong 
the  poet  by  the  least  departure  from  his  meaning. 

"  When  she  had  ceased  speaking  some  idiot  began  to  clap, 
but  was  promptly  snubbed  into  silence  by  his  neighbours,  and 
she  sang.  You  know  the  song,  and  you  can  imagine  its 
effect  on  her  kind-hearted,  rich,  sentimental,  overfed  audi- 
ence. At  the  words  Comme  on  pleure  a  vingt  ans — (she 
herself  is  just  twenty-one)  some  one  gave  a  loud  and  hideous 
sniff,  but  no  one  laughed  at  it. 

"  And  when  she  ceased,  there  was  a  long  pause,  and  then 


THE  DUCHESS'S  CONCERT  309 

came  such  a  roar  of  applause  that  I  hoped  the  gilded 
chandelier  might  be  shattered.  (It  wasn't.) 

"  They  stormed  and  called  her  name  and  clapped  for  six 
or  seven  minutes  I  should  think,  but  she  stood  quite  still, 
her  face  as  white  as  snow. 

"Then  she  took  up  my  hat,  and  went  down  and — 
handed  it  round,  if  you  please,  herself,  quite  simply,  as  if  she 
were  a  girl  at  a  country  fair. 

"  Old  Schwarzmann  was  there,  and  Ludermeier,  and  each 
of  course  wrote  on  a  bit  of  paper  and  gave  her  that.  Edgar 
Wight  followed  suit,  and  several  others,  and  the  rest  gave 
money.  If  I  told  you  what  that  blessed  damozel  picked  up, 
you  would  not  believe  me,  but  the  papers  were  not  far  out 
for  once. 

"  It  was  a  strange  scene.  She  was  serious — no,  more  than 
serious — she  was  tragedy  in  person.  She  did  not  smile,  her 
mouth  was  very  red  and  very  set.  She  did  not  thank  any- 
one. Old  Harmon  said  he  felt  that  Charity  herself  had 
come  not  to  ask  but  to  demand  her  share  of  the  world's 
wealth. 

"  And  it  is  true  that  we  were  all  impressed. 

"When  she  came  to  Maudie  Romney  I  watched  closely. 
Her  face  never  changed,  nor  did  she  recognise  Cressage  be- 
yond giving  him  the  grave  bow  she  gave  all  her  acquaint- 
ances. He  put  money  into  my  hat,  and  so  did  Maudie,  in 
silence.  When  she  had  been  all  round  the  great  room  she 
went  to  the  Duchess,  made  her  a  little  curtsey  and  gave 
her  the  hat.  It  was  full  of  gold,  notes  and  twists  of  paper 
promising  gold  and  notes. 

"  The  Duchess  kissed  her  loudly  on  both  cheeks. 

"  '  I  think  some  one  ought  to  kiss  me,'  I  whispered  in  my 
lonely  heart,  '  it's  my  hat.' 


3io  BEECHY 

"  But  no  one  kissed  me.  No  one  ever  does  but  you, 
Madame  ma  Mere,  and  I  took  my  hat,  squashed  it,  and 
went  to  get  a  drink.  .  .  . 

"  Thursday 

"  At  this  point,  Mother  dear,  I  was  interrupted  by  a  brute 
of  a  telephone  message;  someone  clamouring  for  an  article 
I  had  utterly  forgotten,  so  I  will  now  go  on  with  my  letter. 

"  An  hour  later  came  what  to  me,  with  my  little  eye,  was 
the  clou  of  the  whole  thing.  I,  sought  out  if  you  please 
by  the  lovely  Beatrice — what  a  magnificent  name  it  is, 
Beatrice  Cavaleone ! — was  walking  with  her  in  a  room  about 
half  a  mile  from  the  concert-room.  She  was  very  silent  and 
suddenly  out  of  her  silence  she  said,  '  Lex — I  am  very 
un'appy.' 

"Lex:    'I  know.    I  have  seen.' 

"  The  Prima  Donna:     '  I  am  jealous,  Lex.' 

"Lex:  'Jealousy  is  a  flame  of  fire.'  (She  didn't  know 
that  another  great  man  had  said  it  years  ago.) 

"  The  Prima  Donna  (very  seriously) :    '  It  is  the  devil.' 

"  Lex:    '  Why  don't  you  fight  ? ' 

"  The  Prima  Donna  (without  the  usual  pretence  of  non- 
comprehension).  'I  don't  know  how.' 

"  It  was  very  pathetic,  Mother.  She  told  me,  then,  they 
were  to  have  been  friends,  (Charles  Cressage  her  friend!) 
and  she  was  so  happy.  Then  suddenly  this  yellow-haired 

woman,  this her  nouns  are  forcible  but  unfit 

for  your  ears.  She  hated  Maudie  Romney.  She  wished 
Maudie  would  die  of  an  apoplexy.  She  would  like  to  kill 
her. 

"Lex:  'Why  don't  you?  Why  don't  you  kill  her,  I 
mean  ? ' 

"  The  Prima  Donna:     '  I — after  all,  she  is  a  great  lady 


3» 

and  I — I  sold  papers  in  Rome,  in  boy's  clothes,  ten  years 
ago ' 

"  We  walked  on,  her  hand  on  my  arm,  until  we  came 
quite  unexpectedly,  for  me  (for  I  always  get  lost  in  that 
awful  gilded  wilderness  of  a  house)  to  the  Conservatory.  I 
had  a  feeling  that  we'd  find  Maudie  and  her  young  man 
there,  and  I'm  blowed  if  we  didn't. 

"  Under  a  palm,  of  course,  a  becoming  light,  a  tinkling 
fountain  within  earshot,  and  the  rest.  Trust  Madame 
Maudie  to  spy  out  all  the  obvious  points  for  a  situation! 
Pretty  she  certainly  is,  though  I  know  her  head  is  stuffed 
with  pumpkin  seeds  instead  of  grey  matter,  and  in  her  blue 
frock  she  looked  quite  lovely,  as  she  smiled  up  at  him. 
Cressage,  poor  devil,  was  enjoying  himself.  She  was  mak- 
ing violent  love  to  him  and  in  spite  of  his  evident  misery 
he  couldn't  help  enjoying  her  homage.  They  didn't  see  us 
and  for  a  long  time  (it  seemed)  we  stood  and  looked  at 
them. 

"  Then  he  took  her  hand  and  played  with  her  naughty 
charming  fingers.  '  Let  us  go  back  to  my  quiet  little  draw- 
ing-room,' she  said  softly,  '  and  talk  it  over ' 

"  '  Hurry,'  I  said  to  my  splendid  lady,  '  now's  the  mo- 
ment/ 

"  '  What  shall  I  say  ? '  she  whispered. 

" '  Anything — the  truth — but — hurry.' 

"  Up  she  went  to  them  as  straight  as  if  she  had  been  an 
arrow  sent  from  an  old  oak  bow. 

" '  Carlo,'  she  said  gently,  in  English,  for  the  enemy's 
benefit,  '  Come — I  want  you  to  take  me  home.' 

"  He  rose,  startled  out  of  all  his  self-possession. 

"'Home?'  he  said. 

"'Yes.' 


312  BEECHY 

"  That  was  all.  I  hurried  up  to  cover  his  retreat,  he 
stammered  good-night  to  poor  little  Maudie,  for  whom  I  felt 
a  truly  Christian  sympathy,  and  off  they  went  together. 

"  The  Honourable  Mrs.  Bob  does  not  lack  courage.  She 
turned  a  very  green  colour  that  might  have  been  green  but 
for  her  patina,  and  said  to  me,  '  What  a  splendid  couple, 
aren't  they?  I  like  poor  old  Lady  Kitty,  but ' 

"  Rather  fine  in  its  way,  wasn't  it  ?        ... 

"Your  devoted  son, 

"  LEX." 


CHAPTER    XLI 

LORD  CHARLES  TELLS  THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  His  OTHER 

LOVES 

AD  that,  so  far  as  Beechy  is  concerned,  was  the  end 
of  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Bob  Romney,  for  the  time 
being. 

A  week  later  the  Signora  and  Beechy  went  to  Italy,  and 
ten  days  after  that,  Charles  Cressage  followed  them. 

The  reconciliation  had  been  complete.  Beechy's  apologies 
as  full-hearted  as  was  her  jealousy,  she  concealed  nothing, 
attempted  no  mitigations,  made  herself  in  her  furious 
humility,  a  worm  in  the  dust.  Cressage  held  her  in  his  arms 
which  had  ached  for  her  and  forgave  everything,  blaming 
himself  for  things  he  had  not  'done,  loading  his  own 
shoulders  with  quite  imaginary  faults.  They  kissed  and 
wept,  kissed  and  wept  again.  His  nerves  had  been  as  strung 
up  as  hers,  and  in  his  doubts  and  fears  about  his  age  had 
given  him  pangs  of  which  she  could  not  even  guess. 

"  I  am  old,"  he  said,  "  and  you  are  divine  youth  incarnate. 
Can  you  love  a  man  of  my  age  who  has  lived  the  life  I 
have?" 

And  she  closed  his  mouth  with  kisses  against  such  blas- 
phemy. 

"  You  look  ill,  ill,"  she  wailed,  "  and  it  is  my  fault." 

"  It  is  mine  for  being  a  fool  and  letting  you  imagine 
things " 

And  so  on  and  so  on.  All  will  understand  except  those 

313 


3H  BEECHY 

poor,  excellent  beings  who  have  never  made  fools  of  them- 
selves and  then  been  forgiven. 

They  sat  in  the  little  sitting-room  until  far  into  the  small 
hours,  and  then  Cressage,  after  half  a  hundred  last  kisses, 
made  her  wake  the  Signora. 

When  the  Signora,  whose  own  nerves  were  not  quite  what 
they  might  be  under  the  strain  of  Beechy's  misery,  had 
dressed  and  come  into  the  sitting-room,  Cressage  rang  the 
bell. 

A  sleepy  waiter  appeared,  and  the  Signora  with  an  os- 
tentatious yawn,  bade  him  bring  tea  and  bread  and  butter. 

"I  know  it  is  very  late,"  she  said  (he  was  an  Italian), 
"but  I  am  extremely  tired  and  must  have  some."  As  she 
spoke  she  gave  an  angry  glare  at  Cressage,  a  touch  of  Mac- 
chiavellian  realism  that  won  for  her,  as  the  door  closed,  a 
delighted  hug  from  Beechy. 

"  Oh,  you  darling  Signora  Evelina,"  the  girl  cried,  "  what 
an  angel  you  are.  How  Aurelio  will  laugh." 

"  Aurelio  is  back  ?  "  asked  Cressage. 

"Yes.  He  returned  the  day  before  yesterday.  Oh,  Sig- 
nora Evelina,  where  are  my  presents  and  letters  ?  " 

The  via  del  Violino  had  written  as  one  man,  through  the 
elegant  medium  of  young  Simeone.  It  was  grateful,  the  via, 
and  flattered,  and  delighted  with  its  gifts.  Above  all  was 
the  via  proud  of  its  great  child.  And  it  sent  to  her  as  a 
souvenir  and  token  of  affection  a  large  gilded  vase  on  which, 
in  the  midst  of  a  bright  blue  medallion,  a  golden-haired 
Juliet  bent  from  the  window  to  kiss  a  green-legged,  black- 
haired  Romeo. 

"  Isn't  it  lovely?"  Beechy  asked,  her  hand  on  the  mon- 
strous thing,  and  Cressage  admitted  that  it  was. 

Father   Antonio   had   written,   and   Sister   Ippolita,   the 


LORD  CH4RLES  TELLS  THE   TRUTH    315 

erudite  nun,  for  the  whole  convent.  The  Sisters  and  the 
orphans,  children  all  of  them  in  their  powers  of  enjoyment, 
loved  the  sweets.  And  dear  Lucia  was  dead,  and  the  dear 
Reverend  Mother  was  to  have  an  operation  for  the  cataract 
and  Beechy  must  pray  for  her. 

"  Do  you — pray  for  her?"  asked  Cressage,  awkwardly. 

"  Of  course." 

He  looked  at  her,  his  dark  eyes  full  of  the  expression  that 
only  his  dead  mother  might  have  recognised. 

"Pray — for  me,  too,"  he  said,  still  awkwardly.  Her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  I  do— always." 

He  took  the  two  women  to  the  station  the  next  day,  gave 
them  books  and  papers,  and  then  walked  slowly  back  across 
the  park  along  Piccadilly  to  Dover  Street.  He  was  not 
quite  sure  where  he  was  going,  but  on  he  went  along  Bond 
Street,  Brook  Street,  and  through  Regent  Street  to  Portland 
Place. 

At  the  corner  of  Langham  Place  he  paused  for  a  moment. 
It  was  a  dull,  thunderous  afternoon,  and  the  broad  street 
was  nearly  empty.  Lord  Charles,  five  minutes  later,  rang  at 
his  wife's  door. 

When,  a  fortnight  later,  he  saw  Beechy  at  her  little  villa 
near  Frascati,  he  told  her  about  his  call. 

"  She  was  very  good  to  me,"  he  said. 

"  So  she  was  to  me.     But — why  did  you  go?  "  she  asked. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  wall  of  the  stone  parapet  below 
which  spread  the  sea-like  waves  of  the  Campagna.  It  was 
a  golden  afternoon,  but  under  the  thick-leaved  trees  the 
long  path  by  which  they  had  come  from  the  house  lay  in 
black  shadow. 

Cressage   looke'd   at   her.     "Well,"   he  said,   "I   don't 


3i6  BEECHY 

quite  know.  She  is  a  good  woman,  you  know,  and — I  felt 
good." 

She  nodded.     "  I  understand.     Ah  si,  capnisco  io" 

"  I  knew  that — that  Maudie  Romney  would  talk, — and 
— and  others — and  I  wanted  her,  Kitty,  to  know.  She 
was,"  he  added  slowly,  "pleased.  She  was  also  surprised." 

"  I  don't  see  why  she  was  surprised." 

Beechy,  who  wore  a  white  linen  frock  and  a  brown  hat 
covered  with  poppies,  stuck  out  her  lip.  "  Why  was  she 
surprised  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "  Well — I  am  a  very  good  man  these  days, 
ain't  I?  That's  enough  to  surprise  anyone.  She  sent  you 
her  love." 

"Thanks." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time.  She  was  perfectly  happy 
in  having  him  with  her,  he  was  perfectly  happy  in  watching 
her.  She  was  so  much  her  most  true  to  type  here  in  her 
little  old  villa ;  so  thoroughly  a  Roman.  Had  he  not  known 
Italian  he  could  never  so  thoroughly  have  understood  her, 
but  his  familiarity  with  her  language  gave  her  that  perfect 
freedom  from  self-consciousness  that  alone  permits  one  to  be 
one's  real  self. 

In  the  villa  at  the  end  of  the  allee,  the  good  Scarpia  was 
taking  her  siesta.  In  a  little  time  the  sun  would  set,  and 
there  would  come  a  simple  dinner  on  the  terrace  under  the 
stairs  and  he  and  Beechy  would  stroll  about  together  lis- 
tening to  the  nightingales. 

Then,  at  half-past  ten,  they  would  climb  the  high  steps 
to  the  house, — the  steps,  the  stone  balustrades  to  which  were 
completely  hidden  by  a  mantle  of  ivy — and  going  into  the 
bare  yellow  hall,  light  their  candles  and  go  to  bed. 

Cressage  had  seen  his  room,  a  small,  clean,  place  bare  of 


LORD   CHARLES   TELLS   THE   TRUTH      317 

all  but  absolutely  necessary  things,  and  decorated  by  two  old 
portraits  of  some  ancestors  of  the  owners  of  the  house;  a 
mincing  lady  in  an  insufficient  blue  velvet  bodice  and  an  old 
man  in  a  fur  cap.  There  were  two  windows  overlooking 
the  garden,  and  one  opening  on  to  a  little  court,  across 
which  he  had  heard,  while  he  dressed  after  his  journey, 
Beechy  and  Signora  calling  to  each  other  from  their  ad- 
joining rooms. 

The  Signora,  thoroughly  satisfied  of  his  morality,  cared, 
he  knew,  not  one  button  for  conventionality,  and  he  was 
free  to  stay  as  long  as  he  liked. 

These  things  he  thought  of  as  he  watched  her  perched 
on  the  parapet. 

"How  is  Snob?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"  Well,  thanks.  A  consistent  person,  Snob.  He  hated 
me  when  she  bought  him,  eight  years  ago,  he  growls  at  me 
now." 

They  both  laughed. 

"  I  have  my  contract  for  America,"  she  said.  "  I  go  in 
October.  I — I  shall  miss  you." 

He  nodded.  "  And  I  you.  But — somehow "  he 

paused  and  gazed  for  some  time  at  the  violet  shadows  that 
were  creeping  up  over  the  wonderful  rolling  plain  below 
them. 

"  She  is  right,"  he  said  at  length,  rising  and  going  to  her. 
"  You  are  reforming  me !  " 

She  looked  up  into  his  serious  eyes.  "Nonsense!  Re- 
forming you — from  what?" 

She  was  marvellous  to  him  with  her  passion,  her  jealousy, 
and  her  utter  content  in  his  friendship.  Marvellous,  until 
he  looked  at  the  greater  miracle  she,  or  something  in  her, 
had  wrought  in  him. 


BEECHY 

That  her  innocent  mind  was  what  it  was  he  could,  after 
all,  nearly  understand,  but  that  he,  Charles  Cressage,  should 
be  happy  in  the  mere  comradeship  of  the  woman  he  loved 
more  than  he  had  loved  any  woman  in  his  whole  life  seemed 
little  less  than  a  miracle. 

But  this  he  could  not  tell  her.  He  knew,  moreover,  that 
the  continuance  of  their  happiness  depended  on  him.  As 
long  as  he  was  content  and  at  peace  so  would  she  be.  But, 
something  told  him,  once  he  lost  his  self-control,  her  peace 
would  go  too,  and  with  a  crash.  For  a  moment  as  he 
watched  her  he  almost  longed  to  see  what  would  happen — 
and  then  with  an  angry  shake  of  his  head,  he  chased  the 
idea  from  his  mind  and  peace  fell  over  him  again. 

"  My  family,"  she  began,  presently,  her  dimple  showing 
as  she  smiled,  "  has  cut  me  off." 

"Aunt  Augusta?" 

"  Aunt  Augusta.  Such  a  letter !  I  wonder  who  told  her. 
She  knows  all  about  you — and  more  than  is  true.  She  tells 
me  I  am  living  in  sin." 

"  Hell,"  muttered  Cressage  under  his  breath. 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "  Oh,  the  ugly  word !  Poor 
Aunt  Augusta,  she  is  a  dreadful  woman,  but  I  am  sorry 
for  her." 

"  Did  you  write  to  her?  " 

"  No.  She  wouldn't  have  believed  me.  I  wrote  to  poor 
good  old  Uncle  'Enry.  He  believes  me,  and  I  told  him  the 
truth.  It  will  make  him  happier.  Aurelio  told  him  about 
it,  too.  Aurelio  visited  them  before  we  left." 

"  Aurelio  is  a  good  sort,"  said  Cressage. 

After  a  moment  he  said:  "When  we  go  back  to  Eng- 
land, dearest,  we  must  be  careful.  People  do  talk,  you 
know." 


LORD   CHARLES   TELLS  THE   TRUTH      319 

"  Yes.  But  I  don't  care,"  she  returned  tranquilly. 
"  Uncle  'Enry  knows,  and  the  Signora  and  Aurelio,  and — 
Lady  Charles,  and  Lady  Cossie." 

He  made  a  face.  He  knew  what  old  Cossie  Bleck 
thought. 

"  We  must  be  careful,  however,"  he  repeated.  "  You 
see,  darling,  I  have  such  an  infernally  bad  reputation, " 

She  turned  half-way  round  and  put  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder,  thereby  cocking  her  hat  over  her  right  ear  and 
squashing  several  poppies. 

"  Poor  darling,"  she  said  in  English,  "  what  a  shaaamel " 

He  kissed  her. 

"  Here  comes  Aurelio." 

Later,  as  they  walked  in  the  garden  after  dinner,  they 
returned  to  the  subject. 

"  Were  you  really  so  very  bad  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  boast,  carissima,"  he  returned,  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  "  but — I  suppose  I  was." 

"And  now?" 

"  Now  I  am  good.  Am  I  not  very  good  ?  "  he  added 
half  seriously. 

"  Ah,  but  very." 

After  a  long  pause,  she  began  again  in  a  careful  under- 
tone. 

"  But  it  wasn't  real  love?  " 

Poor  old  question.  And — should  he  tell  the  usual  poor 
old  lie? 

He  had  told  it  many  times,  but  now  it  stuck  in  his  throat. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I  suppose  so.  There  are 
more  kinds  of  love  than  there  are  days  in  a  man's  life,  be- 
loved. And  I  was  always  sincere,  thank  God.  Only — 
this  is  different,  and — this  is  the  best  of  all." 


320  BEECHY 

She  was  content  with  his  answer,  for  she  realised  its  truth, 
though  she  did  not  understand  it. 

"The  best  of  all,"  she  repeated,  leaning  against  his 
shoulders. 

**  Yes.  You  see, — if  I  were  free, — you  are  the  only 
woman  in  the  world  to  whom  I  would  give  my  name,  and 
whom  I  should  wish  to  be " 

"  The  mother  of  your  children,"  she  finished  for  him, 
quietly.  "  I  understand,  dearest." 

"Yes — I  told  Kitty  that,  and — she  was  glad.  She  is  a 
very  good  woman,  Kitty.  If  it  were  not  absolutely  against 
her  belief  she  would  divorce  me,  I  know,  so  that  I  might 
marry  you.  But — she  doesn't  believe  in  divorce." 

Beechy  smiled  with  the  superiority  of  those  to  whom  that 
belief  is  as  natural  as  their  belief  in  the  impossibility  of 
adding  a  cubit  to  the  stature. 

"  Of  course  there  is  no  divorce,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"  Then — even  if  she  had?  " — he  asked,  standing  still. 

She  shrugged  her  shawled  shoulders. 

"  My  dear,  I  couldn't.    The  church  doesn't  admit  it." 

Her  voice  was  perfectly  conclusive,  but  a  sudden  curi- 
osity seized  him. 

"  If — I  were  not  the  saint  I  am " 

After  a  few  seconds  she  answered  him. 

"  Of  course  I  would  have,"  she  said,  simply,  "  but  it 
would  have  been  mortal  sin." 

Then  it  was  her  actual  belief  he  knew,  and  somehow  it 
troubled  him.  Mortal  sin  which  she  would  have  committed, 
"  of  course,"  for  him. 

He  kissed   her  hand. 

"  Give  me  the  rose  in  your  breast,"  he  said,  and  she 
obeyed  him.  "  I  shall  keep  this/'  he  said. 


LORD   CHARLES   TELLS   THE   TRUTH      321 

He  was,  he  quite  sincerely  felt,  a  very  good  man  indeed 
that  evening.  He  was  also  a  wonderfully  happy  man. 

After  he  was  in  bed  he  could  hear  her  merry  laughter 
and  chatter  with  the  faithful  Scarpia.  In  the  darkness,  he 
kissed  the  rose. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
Two  LETTERS 

EA.RLY  in  October  Cavaleone  went  to  New  York 
where  she  was  engaged  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  for  the  winter  season.  The  summer  and  the 
early  autumn  had  been  perfectly  happy  for  her.  She  and 
the  Scarpia  stayed  at  the  villa  until  the  last  of  September, 
Cressage  remaining  with  them  until  the  beginning  of  the 
month. 

People  have  been  said  to  be  possessed  of  a  devil.  Surely 
at  that  time  Charles  Cressage  must  have  been  possessed  of 
an  angel. 

As  the  long  warm  days  passed,  he  passed  through  a  phase 
of  self-admiration  and  amazement  into  one  of  quiet,  happy 
taking  for  granted  of  his  own  peace  of  mind.  They  sat  by 
the  hour  together  in  the  cool  old  house  in  the  neglected, 
romantic  garden  with  its  beautiful  ilex-trees;  she  prac- 
tised every  day,  she  embroidered — she  was  making  an  altar 
cloth,  all  crimson  and  gold,  for  the  convent — in  the  cool  of 
the  evening  they  walked. 

They  were  together  from  early  in  the  morning  till  the 
early  good-night  hour,  and  he  had  never  been  so  happy  in 
his  life. 

The  peasants  thereabouts  grew  well-used  to  the  sight  of 
the  beautiful  Signore  forestiere  who  walked  about  with  the 
beautiful  cantatrice,  and  they  liked  him,  for  Cressage  was 

322 


TWO  LETTERS  323 

the  soul  of  idle  good  nature  and  he  had  been  given  a  smile 
that  seemed  to  mean  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things. 

Beechy  went  to  mass  often,  but  every  afternoon  she  went 
to  the  old  church  in  the  village  to  sit  in  the  purple  and 
gold  from  the  west  window,  and  Cressage  went  with  her. 

"  I  like  sitting  in  the  wonderful  colour,"  she  said,  "  it 
makes  me  feel  like  an  empress." 

And  as  she  sat  there  in  her  white  dress,  her  radiant  eyes 
looking  at  the  altar  more  in  friendly  comfort  than  adora- 
tion, she  seemed  to  him  something  infinitely  higher  and 
more  beautiful  than  any  empress  who  ever  lived. 

Once,  in  forgetfulness,  she  held  her  hand,  wet  with 
blessed  water,  out  to  him  at  the  church  door  as  they  went  in. 

Then  as  she  knelt,  he  looked  shyly  at  his  finger  tips  on 
which  the  water  still  glistened.  He  wished,  ah,  how  he 
wished,  that  he  was  young  and  innocent  and  an  unques- 
tioning believer  in  the  beautiful  old  religion  that  taught  her 
to  do  the  exquisite  superstitious  things  he  found  so  charm- 
ing. 

She  lost  a  brooch  and  lit  a  candle  before  a  small  figure  of 
St.  Anthony,  gaily  muttering  prayers  as  she  did  it.  When 
she  found  the  brooch  another  candle  must  be  offered,  and 
she  spoke  of  it  as  of  a  visit  to  a  kind  old  thing  of  an  uncle, 
rather  a  bore  but  so  good  to  one  that  one  mustn't  be  un- 
grateful. 

And  it  pleased  her  to  carry  armfuls  of  flowers  to  the 
Madonna. 

These  things  she  did,  not  over-reverently  perhaps,  but 
with  a  friendly  grace  that  enchanted  him.  Her  ignorance 
of  religious  matters  was  great,  but  her  church  was  to  her 
an  integral  part  of  life,  not  an  affair  of  Sunday  mornings 
and  dull  duties. 


324  BEECHY 

They  had  visitors,  too,  at  the  villa. 

One  day,  a  splendid  motor  appeared  at  the  gates  just  as 
Beechy  and  Cressage  were  going  for  a  walk. 

"La  Signorina  Cavaleone?  "  A  tall  well-dressed  young 
man  sprang  out,  smiling  at  Beechy  with  eyes  very  like  her 
own. 

"Yes,— I  am  she " 

"  Then,  bella  mia  cugina,"  he  returned,  kissing  her  hand, 
"  let  me  introduce  myself.  I  am  your  cousin  Leopoldo 
Cavaleone — your  most  humble  servant." 

He  was  the  son  of  her  old  enemy  and  benefactor,  Prince 
Cavaleone,  who  had  died  some  months  before.  And  he 
was  delighted  to  find  his  famous  relation  so  young  and 
beautiful. 

As  soon  as  she  began  to  earn  money  with  her  voice 
Beechy  had  written  to  the  old  prince  thanking  him  for  his 
help  and  returning  his  last  cheque.  To  this  communica- 
tion he  had  paid  no  heed,  but  the  cheques  had  ceased  at 
once. 

Dino,  the  young  prince,  spoke  of  this,  and  Beechy  told 
him,  quite  without  bitterness,  that  she  was  very  glad  to  need 
no  more  assistance  from  her  father's  people.  The  young 
man  was  very  charming  in  his  way,  regretted  his  father's 
obstinacy  about  "  Cousin  Giulio's  "  marriage,  and  declared 
that  he  himself  was  almost  perfectly  sure  he  could  remember 
Beechy's  mother  whom  he  had  seen  when  sent  to  play  with 
the  del  Grillo  children. 

"  I  seem  to  remember  a  very  pretty,  fair  young  lady," 
he  said  earnestly. 

He  was  a  nice  boy,  with  a  passion  for  "  lo  sport "  and  for 
London-made  clothes,  and  as  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  a 
lady  old  enough  to  be  his  mother  and  about  whom  all  sorts 


TWO  LETTERS  325 

of  the  most  awful  tales — "  all  untrue  " — were  toldj  Beechy 
thoroughly  enjoyed  him. 

One  day  he  asked  her  about  Cressage. 

"Your  fidanzato?" 

"  No.  He  is  married  and  I  know  his  wife.  But  I  love 
him  more  than  anyone  in  the  world,"  she  answered, 
serenely.  He  believed  her  to  be  Cressage's  mistress,  but 
he  did  not  care  at  all,  and  indeed  greatly  admired  the 
older  man  and  asked  him  for  his  bootmaker's  address, 

A  happy  month! 

One  day  all  the  orphans  were  brought  out  in  a  tramcar 
that  Beechy  chartered.  Forty-three  little  orphans,  their 
faces  shiny  with  soap,  and  three  nuns  to  guard  them,  and 
Father  Antonio  to  guard  the  nuns.  They  had  their  dinner 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  garden,  and  such  a  dinner  as  it  was! 

After  it  two  orphans  were  sick  under  a  tree,  but  they 
were  glad  they  had  eaten  so  much,  nevertheless. 

Father  Antonio,  very  old  and  frail  now,  sat  in  a  comfort- 
able chair  in  a  cool  place,  and  Beechy  herself  waited  on  him. 
It  was  pretty  to  see  her,  full  of  anxious  hospitality  for 
everyone,  bent  with  all  her  mind  on  making  the  day  happy 
for  them  all. 

The  culmination  of  joy  was  when  the  ices  came,  beauti- 
ful vanilla  and  raspberry  ices  in  red  glasses,  and  each  orphan 
carried  home  her  glass  to  drink  her  milk  from  in  the  future. 

When  they  were  tired  of  walking  about  and  picking 
flowers,  Beechy  sang.  She  sang  her  very  best,  standing 
seriously  by  the  piano,  and  her  programme  had  been  care- 
fully selected.  She  sang  old  religious  songs  her  accompanist 
had  found  for  her,  lovely,  simple  things  over  which  the 
orphans'  eyes  grew  round  and  solemn.  The  three  Sisters 
sat,  their  heads  bent  over  their  folded  hands  and  listened 


326  BEECHY 

with  delight,  for  it  was  pious  music  and,  as  such,  not  sinful. 

Cressage  was  deeply  touched  by  the  whole  day.  Never 
before  had  he  seen  Beechy  so  tender  and  gentle,  never  had 
her  beautiful  voice  seemed  so  exquisite. 

When  they  had  gone,  laden  with  flowers,  back  across  the 
Campagna  in  their  tram  to  Rome,  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms  and  held  her  there  without  kissing  her. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said.    That  was  all,  but  she  understood. 

And  when  his  last  day  there  came,  they  parted  almost 
as  simply. 

"  Good-bye,  my  dearest,"  he  said,  "  until  the  last  of  Sep. 
tember." 

"  Good-bye,  my  Carlo 

When  he  had  gone  she  went  up  the  steep  hill  to  the 
church  and  sat  there  for  a  long  time  thinking  about  him. 
They  met  again  in  London  just  before  she  sailed.  She  was 
to  be  away  until  March,  five  months,  but  the  charm  of  the 
summer  was  still  on  them  both,  and  they  parted  calmly 
enough. 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  at  the  station,  "  if  you  cease  to 
love  me,  I  die." 

"When  I  cease  to  love  you  I  shall  be  dead,"  he  re- 
turned seriously. 

Poor  Beechy,  she  was  the  worst  of  sailors  and  for  four 
days  she  lay  moaning  in  her  bed,  forgetful  of  everything  in 
the  world  but  her  own  misery. 

The  Signora,  on  the  contrary,  defied  the  waves  and  en- 
joyed the  trip  and  the  mystery  it  pleased  her  to  maintain 
about  Beechy  when  questioned  by  the  curious. 

No  one,  not  even  the  representative  of  the  New  York 
World,  succeeded  in  getting  any  information  from  the  new 
soprano's  companion.  Indeed,  it  was  always  a  sorry  day  for 


TWO  LETTERS  327 

a  reporter  when  Beechy  was  out  or  indisposed  to  see  them. 
For  the  Signora  hated  reporters,  and  was  abominably  rude 
to  them  always. 

New  York!     How  they  loathed  it,  the  three  Italians. 

They  had  learned  to  love  London,  for  London  has  its 
own  wonderful  atmosphere  and  its  beautiful  buildings  and 
its  air  of  being  a  city  with  a  history  second  only  to  that  of 
Rome. 

But  New  York!  The  vaunted  blue  sky,  with  its  sharp- 
ness and  coldness,  its  narrow  vaults  of  streets,  its  pitifully 
hideous  houses  and  its  neglected  streets — a  horrible  city, 
void  of  history,  of  charm,  of  romance,  good  only  for  the 
rapid  accumulation  of  dollars.  The  pride  of  its  marvellous 
growth  was  not  theirs,  and  that  was  the  trouble.  It  did 
not  matter  to  Beechy  that  the  city  had  grown  like  Jacob's 
bean-stalk.  The  results  of  its  growth  remained  the  same 
and  it  chilled  and  depressed  her  and  she  hated  it.  Her  suc- 
cess, we  all  know,  was  phenomenal.  The  hateful  clear  air 
was  good  for  her  voice,  and  she  had  never  sung  better,  and 
the  American  public  is  generous. 

She  was  the  darling  of  it  and  the  flamboyant  press  all 
the  season,  and  for  singing  in  one  or  two  of  the  Royal 
Palaces  that  masquerade,  in  Fifth  Avenue,  as  private  houses, 
she  made  several  small  fortunes. 

At  Christmas  she  was  taken  South  in  a  private  car,  and 
at  Palm  Beach  she  had  the  honour  of  refusing  two  mil- 
lionaires and  a  billionaire  from  Chicago,  whose  hobby  was 
the  collecting  of  souvenirs  of  fair  frailties  who  had  been  the 
playthings  of  kings.  A  nice  man,  this  pork-packing  per- 
son, as  New  Yorkers  called  him  (though  he  had  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  pigs  in  his  life,  and  had  made  his  money 
on  the  stock  exchange),  and  when  Beechy  refused  him,  went 


328  BEECHY 

away  leaving  her  as  a  souvenir  a  fan  that  had  belonged  to 
an  old  favourite,  Madame  de  Pompadour. 

This  fan  she  used  in  "  Manon." 

Her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  innate  gaiety,  charmed  every- 
body. Even  the  women  liked  her,  for  American  women  are 
kinder  than  any  others  to  other  women.  Is  it  because  they 
are  very  sure  of  their  own  charms?  Never  mind,  the  fact 
remains  and  is  pretty  to  observe.  In  February  Beechy  took 
cold  and  was  ill  for  a  week,  after  which  she  was  taken  to 
Lakewood. 

Cressage  had  written  frequently,  and  he  wrote  charming, 
expansive  letters.  He  missed  her  horribly,  he  adored  her, 
he  dreamed  of  her.  He  had  the  miniature  she  had  sent  him 
on  a  chain  and  wore  it  round  his  neck. 

Did  she  wear  his  little  ring? 

She  did.  It  was,  curiously  enough,  the  only  ring  she 
had  ever  owned,  an  old  one  that  had  belonged  to  his  mother, 
a  very  fine,  small  ruby,  set  in  gold  tiger's  claws. 

Her  letters  to  him  were  both  rarer  and  shorter.  Italian 
though  she  was,  she  could  not  express  herself  so  well  as 
he,  and  the  sight  of  her  own  words  on  paper  made  her  shy. 
She  sent  him  no  notices  of  her  successes,  but  told  him 
roundly:  "Last  night  I  made  a  huge  success.  They  say  no 
one  ever  sang  '  Manon '  as  I  do  because  my  voice  is  so  fresh 
as  well  as  well  trained.  I  have  beautiful  costumes  and 
look  lovely  in  them." 

Another  time  she  wrote  him :  "  I  hardly  could  believe 
last  night  that  it  was  my  voice  I  heard  Giulietta  singing, 

it  was  so  beautiful "  He  used  to  smile  over  her  letters 

sometimes. 

One  morning  at  Lakewood  she  received  her  home  mail 
and  took  it  into  the  woods  to  read.  It  was  a  beautiful 


TWO   LETTERS  329 

mild  day,  snowless  and  sunny.  She  sat  down  on  a  sheltered 
bench  and  looked  through  her  budget.  No  letter  from 
Charles! 

It  was  ten  days  since  she  had  heard  from  him,  and 
she  had  been  sure  that  she  would  have  a  letter  to-day. 

But  now.  A  dozen  or  so  perfectly  indifferent  communi- 
cations, and  then — one  from  Lady  Charles. 

Beechy's  heart  stopped  for  a  second.  He  was  ill — or 
dead. 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,"  the  eccentric  kind  woman  wrote, 
"  just  a  line  to  ask  you  when  are  you  coming  back  ?  No 
one  seems  to  know.  I  have  not  seen  Charles  for  some  time 
and  as  you  know  I  never  write  to  him.  When  you  do  come 
I  want  you  to  visit  me.  It  will  be  a  good  way  of  stopping 
a  little  malicious  chatter  I  have  heard  of  late,  and  besides 
I  want  to  see  you  and  I  want  you  to  see  Sky  Hill.  So  glad 
for  all  your  success. 

"Yours  sincerely, 
"  CATHERINE  CRESSAGE." 

Beechy  read  the  letter  twice.  Something  was  wrong. 
What  did  Lady  Charles  mean  ?  And  no  letter  from  Charles. 

After  a  long  pause,  she  opened  the  next  letter,  which  was 
typewritten. 

"  If  you  care  for  Charles  Cressage,"  it  said,  "  you  had 
better  come  back  and  look  after  him.  He  is  making  a  fool 
of  himself  over  Lady  Shallop,  the  new  beauty. 

"  X.  Y.  Z." 


CHAPTER   XLIII 
THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  BLUE  CAPE 

THAT  bulwark  of  American  society,  Town  Topics, 
gave  Beechy  her  next  blow.  It  is  easy  to  say 
"  despise  anonymous  letters,"  but  Beechy  was  madly 
in  love,  wise  enough  to  realise  that  Cressage's  position  re- 
garding her  was,  in  spite  of  his  beautiful  acceptance  of  it, 
an  anomalous  one,  and — she  was  in  America  and  he  in 
England. 

Her  first  act  after  long  reflection  over  the  two  letters, 
was,  in  spite  of  her  furious  jealousy,  one  of  trust  in  him. 
She  had  been,  she  said  to  herself,  an  idiot  over  Mrs.  Bob 
Romney,  she  would  trust  him  still.  She  cabled  to  him, 
using  a  little  code  they  had  drawn  up  together,  "  Do  you 
still  love  me  ?  " 

How  they  had  laughed  over  the  absurdity  of  putting 
such  a  useless  phrase  into  their  code! 

Now  she  used  it,  and  waited. 

His  answer,  not  in  code,  was  simply,  "  Goose,  of 
course ! "  She  read  it  a  thousand  times.  Was  it  the 
expression  of  a  bored  man  trying  to  put  off  an  evil  day 
of  explanation,  or  was  it  a  tender  jest  at  her  absurdity  in 
doubting  him?  Town  Topics  seemed  to  answer  her  ques- 
tion. 

"  The  beautiful  Lady  Shallop,"  it  said,  "  who  was  in 
New  York  and  Boston  last  winter,  has  taken  a  house  in 

33° 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  BLUE  CAPE      331 

Charles  Street,  Berkeley  Square,  for  the  season.  Young 
Alfred  Paradyne,  son  of  the  copper  king,  seems  to  have 
recovered  from  his  infatuation  for  this  lovely  red-headed 
Irish  woman,  for  he  is  reported  to  be  engaged  to  a  Rhode 
Island  girl  of  no  particular  position.  But  the  fair  Edith 
never  lacks  adoration,  and  I  am  told  by  a  friend  in  London 
that  her  latest  victim  is  no  other  than  a  certain  noble  Lord 
whose  horse  won  the  Oaks  three  years  ago,  and  whose 
eccentric  but  charitable  wife  is  the  last  of  a  historic  house 
whose  name  died  out  with  her  father.  The  noble  Lord 
in  question  is  seen  everywhere  in  close  attendance  on  Lady 
Shallop,  and  he  makes  no  more  effort  to  conceal  this  pas- 
sion than  he  has  to  conceal  the  others,  the  number  and 
variety  of  which  have  given  to  him  the  reputation  of  be- 
ing the  greatest  Lothario  in  England." 

That  evening  Beechy  saw  her  throat  specialist. 

She  was  burning  with  fever,  her  eyes  hollow  and  the 
peculiar  baby  look  came  to  her  face  that  suffering  always 
brought  to  it. 

"  I  am  ill,"  she  said.     "  I  am  worse." 

"  Your  throat,"  he  answered,  "  is  not  worse." 

"  No, — but  I — I  am  in  trouble,"  she  said,  her  hands 
clasped,  "  I  must  go  home.  You  must  give  me  a  certifi- 
cate  " 

This  he  very  gently  refused  to  do,  for  she  was  not  ill 
enough  to  justify  it.  Her  contract  was  up  in  three  weeks, 
but  she  could  not  wait.  All  night  she  paced  up  and  down 
her  room,  the  distracted  Signora  sitting  in  tears  outside 
her  door.  And  in  the  morning  she  was  ill. 

Her  physician  wrote  out  the  statement  that  in  his  opin- 
ion she  would  be  unfit  for  work  for  two  months. 

The  opera  management  was  very  kind,  although  very 


332  BEECHY 

sad,  and  the  next  day  Beechy  sailed,  a  silent,  sombre, 
pale  woman,  who  sat  staring  by  the  hour  at  the  sea,  the 
Signora  and  Aurelio  guarding  her  against  intrusion. 

At  Euston  she  bade  them  good-bye.  They  were  to  do 
whatever  they  liked  for  a  week,  except  tell  that  she  was  in 
England.  She  would  write  to  Aurelio.  They  were  not 
to  come  to  see  her. 

Nearly  in  tears  they  obeyed.  They  knew,  poor  souls, 
only  that  something  had  happened.  Aurelio  went  to  the 
address  he  had  given  her,  the  Signora  to  stop  with  a  friend 
near  Leicester  Square.  They  obeyed  her  because  they  must, 
but  they  were  heart-broken,  the  faithful  friends. 

They  knew  of  her  plans  only  that  she  was  going  to  stay 
in  town,  and  that  she  would  write  within  a  week. 

She  kissed  them  both,  pulled  down  her  thick  veil  and 
took  a  hansom.  Her  plans  were  all  made  and  she  carried 
them  out  with  that  perfection  of  detail  that  made  her  the 
artist  she  was. 

She  went  to  a  private  hotel  near  Russell  Square,  three 
houses  painted  the  colour  of  bullock's  blood,  that  had  been 
turned  into  one, — "  Edinburgh  House." 

She  engaged  two  back  rooms  high  up,  and  gave  her  name 
as  Mrs.  Craddock, — a  name  she  had  seen  on  a  sign  on  her 
way  from  Euston. 

She  told  her  landlady  that  she  was  companion  to  a  lady 
in  the  West  End,  who  had  to  get  her  rooms  out  of  the 
house  for  a  week,  as  she  had  guests  coming,  but  that  she, 
Mrs.  Craddock,  was  to  go  to  Mrs.  Green's  every  morn- 
ing, and  to  stay  until  after  the  dinner  guests  had  left. 
"  She  entertains  a  good  deal,"  she  added. 

Mrs.  Toomey  watched  her  keenly.  "  You  'ave  no  lug- 
gage, ma'am  ?  "  she  asked. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  BLUE  CAPE      333 

Beechy  smiled.  "No, — I  shall  of  course  dress 
there." 

She  had  silver  bottles  and  brushes,  etc.,  and  her  trav- 
elling dress  was  new  and  smart. 

Mrs.  Toomey  gradually  softened.  Not  that  the  woman 
altogether  believed  her  new  lodger's  story,  but  she  looked 
thoroughly  respectable,  her  purse  was  full  of  gold,  and  in 
case  she  went  out  one  fine  day  and  never  came  back — 
there  were  the  bottles  and  brushes  instead  of  her  three 
pounds. 

Beechy  did  not  go  out  that  day.  It  was  cold  and  rainy, 
and  she  was  tired  out. 

But  on  Monday  she  left  the  house  at  about  ten  and  went 
to  Clarkson's,  where  she  bought  a  grey  wig. 

The  wig  on  her  head,  she  bought  a  cheap  grey  hat  and 
a  long  blue  golf-cape.  In  the  dressing-room  of  a  cheap 
hotel  where  she  lunched,  she  made  up;  a  very  little,  but 
enough  to  change  her  face,  combined  with  the  wig 
and  her  hat  and  cape,  to  prevent  any  one  from  recognis- 
ing her  in  a  casual  meeting. 

It  all  sounds  very  far-fetched  and  impossible,  but  far- 
fetched things  are  often  the  easiest,  and  in  certain  natures 
the  most  natural  in  certain  circumstances. 

Every  morning  that  week,  then,  a  well-dressed  young 
woman  with  a  small  bag  went  into  one  of  the  dressing- 
rooms  at  Victoria  station  and  a  few  minutes  later  a  badly 
dressed  elderly  person  emerged  with  the  same  bag. 

No  one  ever  noticed  her  goings  or  comings.  Luck 
was  on  her  side  and  no  power  on  earth  is  so  strong  as 
luck. 

For  days,  then,  she  watched  Charles  Cressage,  and,  thanks 
to  his  fondness  for  walking,  it  was  fairly  easy.  If  he  took 


334  BEECHY 

a  cab  she  took  another,  and  once  she  even  took  a  motor 
and  followed  him  as  far  as  Knightsbridge. 

For  three  days  she  drew  a  blank.  He  went  as  usual 
to  his  clubs;  to  see  his  sister,  Mrs.  Merrodowne.  He  dined 
at  different  houses,  he  lunched  once  at  the  Bridport's  and 
once  at  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  But  never  once  did 
he  go  to  Number  61  Chester  Street. 

Beechy  had  two  pictures  of  Lady  Shallop,  one  cut  from 
the  Sketch,  one  from  Black  and  White,  and  she  knew  that 
she  would  recognise  her  if  she  saw  her. 

But  Lady  Shallop  was  not  among  the  ladies  she  saw  get 
out  of  their  carriages  at  the  houses  he  entered  at  lunch 
or  dinner-time. 

On  the  other  hand  he  was  a  very  unpunctual  man,  so 
after  the  first  evening  she  walked  about  and  waited  until 
the  parties  were  over,  thus  seeing  the  last  of  the  guests 
leave.  He  did  not,  she  could  be  fairly  sure,  see  Lady  Shal- 
lop during  those  first  days. 

Her  spirits  rose  and  she  began  to  hope  again. 

She  was  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  what  she  was  do- 
ing. The  disguise,  the  travesty,  would  have  amused  her 
had  she  been  in  a  light  mood,  and  to  her  mind  she  was 
merely  exercising  her  rights  in  watching  Cressage.  He  was 
hers  and  she  was  fighting  for  him. 

But  she  must  be  sure.  She  could  not  make  herself 
ridiculous  a  third  time. 

Once  or  twice  a  policeman  advised  her  to  go  on  her 
way,  but  her  answers  were  ready  and  policemen  are  hu- 
man. Once  Lord  Charles  turned  sharply  as  he  went 
up  the  steps  of  his  club  and  looked  her  full  in  the 
face. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  he  recognised  her,  but  he 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  BLUE  CAPE      335 

was  busy  with  his  thoughts  and  had  looked  through,  not 
at  her. 

Thursday  evening,  at  about  seven,  she  lost  him.  She 
was  waiting  outside  his  door  and  as  his  motor  was  not 
there  she  half-hoped  he  would  be  staying  in  as  he  often  did, 
dining  in  his  rooms. 

Suddenly  he  came  out,  and  at  that  moment  a  hansom 
rattled  round  the  corner. 

He  jumped  in  and  was  off.  Two  more  hansoms  fol- 
lowed, but  both  had  fares,  and  Beechy  was  left  alone  in 
the  rain. 

After  a  moment's  acute  misery  she  walked  until  she  found 
a  cab  and  gave  the  address: 

"  61  Chester  Street,  Belgrave  Square." 

She  was  sure  that  he  had  gone  there,  and  she  was  right. 
The  house  was  a  small  one  with  very  fresh  paint.  As  they 
reached  it  a  cab  disappeared  into  the  square,  his  cab,  she 
was  sure.  She  dismissed  her  own  and  going  down  into 
the  area  of  Number  59,  sat  down  on  the  steps  and 
waited. 

The  street  was  quiet  that  night.  At  the  far  end  of  it 
an  awning  indicated  a  festivity  of  some  kind,  but  here 
where  Beechy  sat,  all  was  quiet. 

Huddled  in  her  cape  she  sat,  the  world's  latest  great 
soprano,  her  head  on  her  knees,  despair  tearing  at  her 
heart. 

He  had  looked  so  splendid  as  he  left  his  door,  his  coat 
opening  on  his  gleaming  shirt-front.  She  had  caught  the 
scent  of  his  gardenia  as  he  passed  her. 

It  seemed,  as  she  waited  in  the  cold  damp,  as  if  the  last 
year  was  a  dream,  that  she  had  never  been  warm  and  dry 
and  full  of  comfortable  food.  That  this,  sitting  in  the 


336  BEECHY 

darkness,  shivering  and  miserable,  was  her  share  of  the 
world. 

And — in  that  house  he  was  sitting,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing, and  crinkling  his  eyes  at  the  beautiful  Irishwoman  he 
loved. 

The  indignity  of  her  spying  on  him,  as  I  have  said,  did 
not  occur  to  her.  To  her  primitive  soul,  she  was  fighting 
for  that  which  was  hers.  But  her  misery  was  intense. 

Time  passed;  cabs  and  motors  went  by  carrying  people 
who,  because  they  were  warm  and  satisfied,  seemed  to  her 
to  be  of  a  necessity  happy. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  At  about  half-past  nine  a 
motor  stopped  at  the  door.  It  was  his. 

The  chauffeur  rang  the  bell  and  then  waited. 

"  'Ello,  my  dear,"  he  said  when  the  door  opened,  "  will 
you  tell  my  boss  we're  'ere  ?  " 

After  a  moment  filled  in  by  a  giggle,  he  went  on,  "  We're 
going  to  a  music  'all,  I  take  it?  Too  late  for  a  play!  " 

Beechy  crept  close  under  the  steps. 

"  You're  going  to  the  Empire,"  the  parlour-maid  said, 
"  to  see  the  noo  bally !  " 

Then  after  another  giggle,  the  door  was  closed. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  walking  rapidly  towards 
Lower  Belgrave  Street,  where  she  took  a  cab  off  the  stand. 

"  The  Empire." 

Lord  Charles  and  his  friends  had  a  box,  and  as  they 
looked  down  at  the  audience  Beechy  watched  them  from 
her  place  in  the  gallery. 

Yes,  Lady  Shallop  was  beautiful  with  her  red  head  and 
her  white  skin  and  her  clean  cut,  unpencilled  black  brows. 
She  kept  her  furred  velvet  cloak  round  her,  but  her  shoul- 
ders were  bare  and  on  it  flashed  diamonds. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  BLUE  CAPE      337 

The  third  member  of  the  party  was  a  little  old  man  in 
a  brown  wig,  who  seemed  to  be  deaf,  for  when  Lady 
Shallop  spoke  to  him  she  made  a  shell  of  her  hand  and  spoke 
through  it. 

Beechy  scorned  him  as  passionately  as  she  hated  her 
rival,  for  was  he  not  the  husband,  and  did  he  not  go  to 
sleep  and  let  Charles  Cressage  whisper,  whisper — to  his 
wife? 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Sir  George  Shallop  was  on  his  way 
home  from  Ceylon,  where  he  had  been  looking  after  a 
rubber  plantation  he  had  there,  and  the  old  man  was  a 
great  uncle  of  Lady  Shallop's,  dragged  away  from  the  com- 
forts of  home  at  the  last  moment  that  evening  to  chaperone 
his  lovely  niece. 

Cressage  looked  as  he  had  looked  ever  since  Beechy  had 
been  following  him,  ill,  but  he  was  obviously  keenly  in- 
terested in  Lady  Shallop. 

Beechy  knew  the  signs,  his  nervous  pulling  of  his  mous- 
tache, his  quick  frowns,  his  way  of  leaning  towards  her 
when  he  spoke. 

The  ballet  was  beautiful  and  Genee  danced  wonderfully, 
but  neither  Lord  Charles  nor  his  charmer  paid  the  least 
attention  to  the  stage. 

Beechy  watched,  watched,  watched.  One  of  her  neigh- 
bours, a  young  man  who  smelt  of  white  rose  scent,  caught 
sight  of  her  face  and  stared  hard,  but  she  did  not  see  him. 

It  was  true,  then,  Charles  Cressage  no  longer  loved  her, 
and  the  world  had  come  to  an  end. 


CHAPTER   XLIV 
"CERTAINLY  THE  LORDSHIP  is  EVIL" 

FOR   two   days  more  the  unconscious   Cressage  was 
followed  by  the  woman   in  the  blue  cape.     And 
during  those  two  days  she  twice  saw  him  go  to  the 
house  in   Chester  Street.     Once  she  saw  him   go   to  the 
Carlton  at  tea-time,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Lady  Shallop 
came  in  smiling,  beautifully  dressed,  radiating  self-satisfac- 
tion and  happiness. 

Then  Mrs.  Toomey  lost  her  strange  lodger,  and  Sig- 
norina  Cavaleone,  accompanied  by  her  companion  and  her 
secretary,  reappeared  at  the  hotel  where  they  had  lived  the 
year  before. 

Beechy  said  nothing  to  her  two  friends  about  where  she 
had  been,  and  they  asked  no  questions. 

She  looked  desperately  ill  and  was  extremely  silent,  but 
she  was  very  gentle,  and  spoke  calmly,  asking  Aurelio 
to  telephone  to  her  accompanist  to  come  as  usual  every 
morning.  The  next  day  she  went  with  the  Signora  to 
Redfern's  to  order  clothes  and  made  all  the  other  arrange- 
ments for  her  opera  season. 

"  I  suppose,"  the  Signora  ventured  timidly  as  they  dined 
that  first  evening,  "  that  the  Signer  Lord " 

"Lord  Charles  is  in  Paris,"  answered  Beechy,  and  the 
matter  dropped. 

This  was  true.     She  herself  had  seen  him  start,  the  day 

338 


"CERTAINLY    THE   LORDSHIP   IS   EVIL"    339 

before.     When  his  train  was  well  out  of  the  station  she 
drove  boldly  up  to  Lady  Shallop's  door. 

"  'Er  Ladyship  is  out  of  town,"  said  the  parlour-maid 
not  very  uncivilly  considering  the  blue  cape. 

"  Ah,  yes — to  Paris,  then " 

"  'Ow  do  you  know?"  returned  the  girl  curiously,  but 
the  woman  in  the  blue  cape  turned  without  a  word  and 
got  into  her  hansom. 

Beechy,  an  hour  or  two  later,  clad  in  her  dark  travelling 
dress  and  a  smart  new  hat,  was  walking"  out  of  Victoria 
Station,  her  bag  in  her  hand,  when  she  ran  into  Lady 
Charles  Cressage. 

"  You !  "  The  elder  woman  blinked  anxiously  at  her, 
forgetting  to  shake  hands.  "  I  thought  you  were  still  in 
America " 

"  I  have  just  got  back,"  the  girl  answered,  "  and  you — 
you  are  well?  " 

Lady  Charles,  whose  short  skirt  and  pork-pie  hat  was 
exciting  considerable  amusement  in  the  bosoms  of  two  ladies 
from  Ealing  passing  at  that  moment,  flushed  a  sudden,  ugly 
brick-red.  "  Well, — no.  I  have  been  worried  to  death — 
listen,  where  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

Beechy  told  her  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  pick  up 
the  Signora  Scarpia  near  Leicester  Square. 

"  Come  with  me  first, — I — I  want  to  talk  to  you — that  is, 
I  think  I  ought " 

"  Yes,  I'll  come  with  you.     Have  you  a  cab  ?  " 

The  flustered  courtesy  peeress,  as  she  had  explained  to 
Beechy  she  was,  forgot  for  a  moment  and  then  remarked 
that  she  had  come  in  her  motor. 

"  I've  been  seeing  one  of  my  cousins  off.  Oh,  dear  me, 
and  I've  lost  Snob." 


340  BEECHY 

After  a  short  search  Snob  was  found  peacefully  and 
sensibly  waiting  for  them  at  the  motor's  door,  and  the 
two  women  got  In. 

"  Just  drive  to  the  Park,  Auguste, — round  and  round 
till  I  tell  you  to  stop." 

Then  she  turned  to  Beechy.  "When  did  you  hear  from 
Charles  ?  "  she  asked  as  if  she  were  firing  a  pistol  into  the 
girl's  face. 

"  It — is  some  time  ago.'* 

"  I  thought  so.     Oh,  the  wretch,  the  villain." 

The  poor  lady's  light,  green  eyes  filled  with  tears,  be- 
hind which  they  looked  like  candied  grapes. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  but  I  feel  that 
I  must." 

"  I  know,"  answered  Beechy  stonily. 

Lady  Charles  peered  at  her.  "  Of  course  you  do,  you 
poor  child,  and  that's  why  you  look — like  that." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  Beechy  asked  her 
friend  to  tell  her  all  about  it.  "  I  know  only  the  main 
fact  and — her  name,"  she  explained. 

Lady  Charles  blew  her  nose  with  a  loud  noise  and  gave 
her  skirt  an  upward  jerk  as  if  it  were  trousers  and  she  afraid 
of  springing  their  knees. 

"  To  make  you  understand  I  must  go  back — a  long  way. 
He  was  always  like  that.  Always  sincere,  mind  you,  that's 
his  one  good  quality,  but  as  unstable  as  water.  It — it 
nearly  killed  me  at  first.  When  he  asked  me  to  marry  him 
I  was  nearly  mad  with  joy.  I  was  poor  then,  you  know, 
and  my  two  brothers  were  alive,  and  the  second  one  mar- 
ried. Of  course  no  one  thought  I'd  ever  have  the  money. 
He  married  me  because  he — liked  the  stock.  He  was  al- 
ways fond  of  horses — and  that's  how  he  put  it.  And  I 


"CERTAINLY    THE    LORDSHIP    IS  EVIL"    341 

'didn't  so  much  mind  his  not  loving  me.  I  was  so  ugly 
I  of  course  couldn't  expect  that.  He  fell  in  love  with  a 
girl  who  was  visiting  me,  and  as  he  behaved  very  well  and 
went  to  the  Cape  to  get  away  from  her  I  was  as  kind  as 
I  knew  how  to  be, — I  wasn't  angry.  But  before  he  reached 
the  Cape  he  was  in  love  with  the  wife  of  an  officer  going 
out  to  join  her  husband,  and — oh,  there  was  a  disgraceful 
row  and  the  husband  insulted  Charles  at  the  club — they 
had  some  kind  of  a  duel,  it  is  said,  but  no  one  knows.  He 
was  away  for  a  year  and  he  no  sooner  set  foot  in  England 
than  he  fell  in  love  with  Lizzie  Lightfoot, — a  most  awful 
woman.  She  came  to  me — a  disgusting  affair,  and  then 
I  was  angry. 

"  The  others, — I  have  forgotten  their  very  names — came 
thick  on  the  heels  of  each  other — and — we  separated.  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  Of  late  years  I  have  lived  very  quietly. 
I  never  go  out  at  night  on  account  of  my  lungs,  so  I  don't 
know  much  of  his  doings.  When  you  appeared — you 
know,  I  did  my  best.  But  I  failed.  He  was  quite  won- 
derful for  a  time, — you  had  a  very  good  influence  on  him, 
my  dear,"  she  added  kindly,  laying  her  hand  on  Beechy's. 
"  He  seemed  marvellously  changed,  and  told  me  that  he 
thought  he  was.  He  came  to  see  me  one  day " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"  And  when  he  left  you  at  your  villa  he  wrote  to  me  just 
to  say  that  you  were  an  angel  and  he  a  saint.  Poor 
Charles!  I  began  really  to  have  a  faint  hope  that  he 
might  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  And  even  now  I  believe  that 
if  he  could  have  married  you  it  might  have  lasted — how- 
ever, he  couldn't,  and  you  went  away,  and — then  this 
happened. 

"  She  is  very  pretty  and  apparently  mad  about  him.   She's 


342  BEECHY 

a  lady  by  birth,  but — her  birth  occurred  some  years  ago. 
Her  husband  is  a  ninny.  She  has  the  money.  Ten  days 
ago,  just  after  I  wrote  to  you,  I  sent  for  him.  We  always 
see  each  other  if  one  of  us  asks  the  other. 

"  He  came,  and  I  asked  him.  He  was  furious  with 
me — raged  about  like  a  wild  man,  but  I  didn't  mind  that, 
of  course.  He  didn't  deny  anything.  He  never  does.  She 
has  evidently  driven  him  nearly  mad, — that's  her  way. 
He  was  very  strange  about  you.  Refused  to  say  one  word 
about  you.  I  wasn't  sure  you  had  not  quarrelled.  I  asked 
him,  but  he  only  stamped  about  and  swore  to  himself. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  so  ashamed  of  him ! " 

She  had,  poor  awkward  lady,  too  much  of  that  real 
tact  that  comes  from  the  heart  to  tell  the  girl  that  she 
pitied  her,  and  Beechy  accepted  her  kiss  gratefully. 

Somehow  Lady  Charles's  grief  helped  her.  She  had  felt 
so  utterly  alone  in  the  world,  so  poor  and  outcast,  that 
it  was  balm  to  feel  that  this  good  woman's  sympathy 
brought  a  certain  amount  of  relaxation  to  her  strained, 
taut  mind. 

"  You  are  good,"  she  said,  and  it  was  the  first  time 
for  a  week  that  she  had  had  a  thought  for  any  creature 
under  the  sun  beside  herself. 

The  motor  glided  silently  along,  the  trees  wore  the  queer 
dark  damp  look  they  have  just  before  the  first  leaves  come. 
It  was  going  to  be  spring. 

"  Are  you  going  to  see  him  ?  "  asked  Lady  Charles,  sud- 
denly. 

Beechy  looked  at  her  as  if  her  eyes  were  blurred  by  sleep, 
blinking  and  frowning. 

"  See  him?  I  don't  know.  I  had  not  got  to  that  yet. 
He  is  in  Paris  now " 


"CERTAINLY    THE   LORDSHIP   IS   EVIL"    343 

After  a  while  Lady  Charles  gave  the  chauffeur  the  ad- 
dress of  the  Signora's  friend  near  Leicester  Square. 

"Will  you  come  to  see  me,  Beatrice?  " 

"  I — I  will  write  to  you.  And — you  will  not  tell  him 
you  have  seen  me." 

"  I  shall  not  see  him  again,"  answered  her  friend,  sud- 
denly grim. 

"And — if  /  see  him "  Beechy  broke  off  short. 

Lady  Charles  kissed  her  as  they  parted,  but  when 
Beechy  had  watched  the  motor  disappear  into  the  gather- 
ing fog,  she  turned  away  from  the  house  and  went  to  the 
little  French  Church  in  Leicester  Street. 

Before  an  altar  to  the  Madonna  she  knelt,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  hands  clenched  on  her  breast. 

"  Oh,  Madonna,"  she  prayed  rapidly,  "  help  me,  help 
me,  help  me.  He  has  left  me  and  I  am  dying.  He  no 

longer  loves  me,  and  he  loves  her "  she  broke  off  short, 

for  she  had  nearly  cursed  that  other  woman,  here  in  a  holy 
place.  "  It  will  kill  me,  for  I  cannot  live  without  him. 
But  help  me  to  be  good.  Help  me  to  forgive  him,  as  Lady 
Charles  does.  Help  me  to  be  good,  like  Lady  Charles. 
Oh,  Mary,  dear,  Christ's  Mother,  take  away  this  awful 
feeling  in  my  head,  and  make  me  stop  thinking.  Make  me 
sleep.  Oh,  make  me  sleep.  I  want  to  be  good, — I  want  to 
be  like  Lady  Charles.  If  I  had  not  met  her— oh,  Mary, 
look  what  I  have  brought  to  you !  " 

From  her  pocket  she  took  a  small  revolver  and  held  it 
in  her  two  hands  like  a  votive  offering. 

"  I  had  meant — I  had  meant  to  kill  them  and  then  me, 
but  now  I  will  not.  See — here  it  is,  oh  Lady  of  the  Seven 
Douleurs,  I  give  it  to  you, — and  you — give  me  peace  in- 
stead,— la  paie — la  paie " 


344  BEECHY 

After  a  moment  she  rose.  It  was  nearly  dark  in  the  lit- 
tle church.  Two  blue-frocked  nuns  in  strange  butterfly- 
like  caps  were  telling  their  rosaries  at  the  high  altar,  and 
in  the  silence  the  click  of  the  beads  was  distinctly  audible. 

Looking  round  in  a  hasty,  furtive  way,  the  great  singer, 
become  a  child  in  the  hour  of  stress,  crept  quietly  to  the 
altar  and  reaching  up,  laid  her  pistol  without  any  noise 
on  the  embroidered  altar  cloth  behind  a  vase  of  fuchsias 
that  stood  at  the  statue's  foot. 

Then  she  knelt  again  for  a  long  time,  and  this  time  the 
rest  and  peace  she  so  long  needed  came  to  her  in  the  dusky 
place. 

That  evening  when  she  had  gone  to  bed  the  Signora  and 
Aurelio  talked  things  over  in  the  sitting-room. 

"  It  has  to  do  with  him,"  Aurelio  said,  fiercely,  "  curse 
him." 

"  Yes, — an  apoplexy  take  him,  of  course  it  is.  I  wonder 
if  she  has  seen  him  ?  " 

They  wondered  on,  wasting  much  time  in  that  un- 
profitable occupation,  but  before  they  separated  Aurelio 
formulated  their  line  of  action. 

"  We  mustn't  ask  her  any  questions,  Signora  Evelina," 
he  said,  "we  must  just  pretend  not  to  notice,  and  try  to 
be  always  here  when  she  wants  us,  and  out  of  the  way  when 
she  doesn't " 

Beechy  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  such  faithful  and 
loving  friends,  but  there  they  were,  suffering  with  her, 
thinking  only  of  her,  ready  to  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  her.  The  world  is  a  good  place. 

The  days  passed  slowly.  Beechy  was  gentle  to  every- 
one but  looked  pitiably  ill.  She  studied,  saw  the  opera 
people,  sent  for  her  doctor  and  faithfully  took  the  tonics 


''CERTAINLY    THE   LORDSHIP   IS  EVIL"    345 

he  ordered.  Every  afternoon  she  went  out  alone,  and 
Aurelio,  following  her  to  the  little  church  in  Leicester 
Street,  left  her  there  and  went  back  to  the  anxious  Scarpia 
with  a  lighter  heart. 

"  Church  is  good,"  he  said. 

To  Aurelio  she  only  once  spoke  of  her  grief,  and  this 
fact  in  itself,  the  fact  that  she  had  learned  to  be  reserved, 
told  the  faithful  soul  how  great  her  suffering  was.  Gone 
the  stormy,  tearful  child  who  only  a  year  ago  had  sobbed 
out  her  sorrow  in  his  arms,  and,  in  her  place  this  absent- 
looking,  pale  woman  with  the  great  violet  marks  under 
her  eyes. 

One  evening,  a  week  after  their  return  to  the  hotel, 
Beechy  came  into  the  sitting-room  where  Aurelio  was 
writing. 

"  Aurelio, " 

He  turned.  She  had  on  a  white  dressing-gown  and  her 
long  hair  hung  straight  over  her  shoulders.  She  looked 
very  young  and  very  piteous. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  said,  "  giving  me  a  little  book 
long  ago,  on  my  birthday?  The  evening  we  went  to 
hear'Aida'?" 

"  Yes — Bici,  dear,  of  course  I  remember " 

"  And  you  made  me  open  it,  while  we  waited  for  the 
bus,  and  put  my  finger  on  a  verse  ?  " 

He  nodded,  remembering  his  superstitious  horror  at  the 
time. 

She  held  out  the  little  book.  "  I  just  found  it, — I  have 
been  unpacking.  Aurelio,  do  you  remember  what  the  words 
are?" 

She  came  and  stood  near  him,  her  arms  hanging  close 
to  her  sides. 


346  BEECHY 

"  Certainly  the  Lordship  of  Lov«  i»  evil; 
Seeing  that  the  more  homage  his  servants  pay  to  him 
The  more  grievous  and  painful  are  the  torments 
Wherewith  he  torments  them." 

"  It  is  true,  Aurelio,  dear,"  she  said,  her  eyes  wide  and 
fixed,  " '  the  more  grievous  and  painful  are  the  torments.' 
You  are  so  good  to  me,  you  and  Signora  Evelina,  Aurelio, 
I  wanted  to  tell  you,  but — I  cannot  talk  about  it " 

She  laid  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  his  shoulder  and  then 
went  out  of  the  room,  the  little  book  still  in  her  hand. 


LADY   SHALLOP 

THE  afternoon  before  her  first  opera  season,  Beechy 
had  a  letter  from  Charles  Cressage. 
"May   I   come  to  see  you?"  he  wrote  curtly. 
"  I  am  just  back  from  Paris." 

His  man  waited  for  the  answer,  and  she  gave  it  to  him 
almost  at  once. 

"  Dear  Lord  Charles,"  she  wrote.  "  Please  'do  not  come 
to  see  me.  I  forgive  you.  Beatrice  Cavaleone." 

Then  she  went  for  a  long  walk  with  Cricket  Londale, 
who  had  turned  up  again  looking  quite  as  freckled  and 
sunburned  as  if  it  were  August  instead  of  April. 

"  I  have  written  a  lot  of  poetry,"  the  youth  told  her 
as  they  tramped  along  the  Round  Pond  towards  the  Broad 
Walk,  "  and  I'd  like  to  read  it  to  you  if  you  don't 
mind " 

"  I  shall  like  very  much." 

He  watched  her  anxiously.  Yesterday  he  had  asked  the 
Old  Girl,  as  he  called  the  Scarpia,  if  his  divinity  were  ill, 
and  the  Signora,  with  unnecessary  vehemence,  had  said  no. 
But  Beechy  was  ill,  he  knew,  and  it  made  him  miserable. 
Another  undeserved  affection. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  let's  sit  down  under 
that  tree." 

Beechy  nodded.     "Yes,  I   am  tired.     The  first  warm 

days,  you  know " 

347 


348  BEECHY 

Some  children  were  laughing  over  their  little  boats,  two 
severe-looking  nurses  in  hospital  uniform  (which  practice 
is  a  deplorable  one  and  should  not  be  permitted)  watch- 
ing over  them.  The  grass  was  green,  the  sky  blue,  and 
flecked  with  snow-white  clouds. 

Beechy  leaned  back  and  was  silent  as  she  watched  a 
merry  little  boy  in  wide  jack-tar  trousers  as  he  screamed 
with  joy  over  his  boat's  swiftness. 

She  was  glad  to  be  with  young  Londale,  for  she  liked 
him,  and  the  mild  air  felt  pleasant  after  the  cold  of  New 
York. 

Suddenly  the  young  man  said,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  saw 
Lord  Charles  Cressage  in  Paris  the  other  night  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris.  What  an  awfully  fine-looking  fellow  he 
is." 

Beechy  nodded.     "Yes,  isn't  he?" 

"  He  was  with  a  cousin  of  mine,  a  chap  named  Shallop, 
an  awfully  decent  little  beggar.  His  wife  is  the  beautiful 
Lady  Shallop.  She  had  on  the  biggest  hat  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life." 

"Yes,  she  is  very  lovely,  I  have  seen  her,"  answered 
Beechy,  smoothing  the  back  of  one  glove  with  her  other 
hand.  "Do  you  like  her?" 

Londale  hesitated.  "  Oh,  well — '  like  ' — I  don't  know. 
She's  awfully  jolly,  but — I've  always  been  fond  of  Archie 
Shallop,  you  see " 

"  I  see,"  Beechy  answered,  quietly.  It  was  strange,  she 
thought,  how  quickly  she  had  grown  old.  Only  a  few 
months  ago  she  and  this  boy  had  been  the  same  age.  Now 
he  seemed  a  child  to  her,  and  she  was  treating  him  as  if 
she,  not  he,  were  the  child. 

"  I  am  told,"  she  said   after  a  moment,   "  that  Lord 


LADY   SHALLOP  349 

Charles  greatly  admires  your  cousin — Lady  Shallop,  I 
mean." 

Cricket  chuckled.  "  Rather/  But  he  doesn't  much  count 
in  this  way  I  imagine.  Archie  says  he's  always  mad  over 
some  woman.  That's  rather  sickening,  I  think,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do.  Shall  we  walk  on?  Let's  go  past  the  palace 
and  see  the  flowers " 

They  crossed  the  spongy  grass  to  the  Broad  Walk  and 
walked  on,  the  boy  talking  eagerly. 

Off  to  their  right  the  old  palace  basked  in  the  pale  sun- 
light, the  trees  were  frothed  with  green,  and  the  tulips  and 
hyacinths  stood  up  bravely  on  their  stout  little  legs  like 
children  playing  at  soldiers. 

It  was  a  delightful,  languid,  peaceful  afternoon. 

Near  the  Albert  Memorial  they  met  two  men  and  a  lady. 
Beechy  did  not  see  them  at  first.  She  was  looking  down. 

"  Hullo,"  cried  Cricket,  giving  a  little  hop  like  his  name- 
sake, "  here  they  are,  by  Jove !  " 

Charles  Cressage,  a  carnation  in  his  coat,  bent  over  Lady 
Shallop  as  they  walked  and  he  talked  to  her,  for  she  was 
not  so  tall  as  he.  Sir  Archie  was  plainly  bored.  Just  be- 
fore Beechy  and  young  Londale  reached  them,  the  little 
baronet  stopped.  "  Well — I'll  go  back  and  speak  to  Peter," 
he  said,  "  or  get  him  on  the  telephone.  You  will  take 
Edith  home,  Cressage, — hello,  Cricket,"  he  added  heartily, 
"  how  are  you  ?  " 

They  shook  hands  and  Beechy  looked  up  at  Cressage. 

"  'Ow  do  you  do,  Lord  Charles  ?  "  she  said  quietly. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  He  was  very  white  and  his  lips 
moved  nervously.  "  How  do  you  do  ? "  he  returned,  like 
an  automaton. 

Lady  Shallop  came   forward.     "  Now,  Lord   Charles," 


350  BEECHY 

she  said  with  an  intensely  sweet  smile,  "  here  is  your  chance 
to  keep  your  promise — I  have  so  wished  to  meet  you,  Sig- 
norina — I  am  one  of  your  greatest  admirers — we  are  all 
coming  to  hear  you  to-morrow " 

Cressage  muttered  something  and  the  two  women's  hands 
met. 

"  I  am  ver'  glad/'  Beechy  answered.  "  You  like  music?  " 
Then  she  went  on  to  Cressage,  "  I  'ope  you  are  well, " 

As  they  walked  on  she  heard  the  little  red-headed  beauty 
exclaim,  "  But  she  hasn't  an  '  h.'  How  quaint !  " 

It  had  happened,  then,  Beechy  told  herself  over  and 
over  again,  and  she  still  lived.  He  had  had  her  note — he 
knew  they  were  not  to  meet  again — and  here  he  was  walk- 
ing with  the  new  one. 

For  a  moment  the  fierceness  which  had  prompted  her 
to  buy  the  little  revolver  came  back  to  her  and  she  could 
have  wished  to  kill  them  both.  But  it  is  outraged  pride 
more  than  outraged  love  that  brings  the  wish  for  revenge 
with  it,  and  Beechy  was  not  proud.  On  the  contrary 
she  was  very  humble,  and  the  thought  of  her  childish 
Hays  in  Rome  seemed  to  set  her  in  the  dust  at  Cressage's 
feet 

"  It  is  after  all  natural,"  she  reflected,  as  she  sped  home 
alone  in  a  hansom,  having  dismissed  Londale ;  "  he  is  a 
great  gentleman  and  I — what  was  I  ten  years  ago !  " 

After  a  moment  she  added  to  herself:  "He  looks  ill, 
so  ill!" 

She  had  a  horrible  night  dreaming  of  Cressage  as  he  had 
been,  waking  to  realise  what  he  now  was,  and  to  sob  her- 
self to  sleep  again. 

The  next  night  she  opened  the  season  in  "  Manon  "  and 
her  witchery  and  charm  was  amazing.  She  sang  her  very 


LADY  SHALLOP  351 

best,  and  she  was,  in  her  careful  make-up  and  beautiful 
rococo  costumes,  deliciously  pretty. 

In  a  box  she  saw  Lady  Shallop  and  several  other  people, 
but  Cressage  was  not  visible. 

And  now  began  her  wonderful  season.  Night  after  night 
she  sang  Marguerite,  Carmen,  Manon,  A'ida,  roles  not 
usually  regarded  as  suited  all  to  one  voice,  but  possible  to 
her  because  of  the  extraordinary  flexibility  of  her  voice. 
And  in  her  close  attention  to  her  work  her  health  im- 
proved, at  least  apparently.  Her  colour  came  back  and  the 
bones  in  her  face  receded  to  their  proper  place.  She  worked 
very  hard  and  her  reward  was  great. 

A  Royal  Personage  gave  her  a  diamond  brooch,  she 
was  commanded  to  sing  Manon  on  a  Royal  Birthday,  the 
great  people  of  England  combined  to  honour  her. 

And  when  young  Dino  Cavaleone  came,  and  not  only 
acknowledged  but  proudly  claimed  the  cousinship,  her 
triumph  was  complete. 

Everyone  knew  that  an  English  Marquis  asked  her  to 
marry  him;  at  a  week-end  party  she  was  presented  to  the 
First  Gentleman  in  Europe;  and  the  story  about  Charles 
Cressage  was  either  forgotten  or  overlooked. 

Beatrice  Cavaleone  was  the  most  sought-after  woman  in 
London  that  season. 

Lady  Cossie  was  delighted,  and  at  Whitsuntide  asked 
her  down  to  Wychley  again.  "  I  am  a  year  younger  than 
I  was  last  year,"  the  old  lady  said,  gaily,  tugging  at  the 
lace  in  her  sleeves  to  coax  it  to  hide  her  knobby  old  el- 
bows, "  and  your  adorer — Chris  Bidfield,  is  longing  to  see 
you  again." 

But  Beechy  did  not  flinch  as  she  regretted  her  inability 
to  accept  Lady  Cossie's  invitation. 


352  BEECHY 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  I  am  sorry.  I  like  you,  and  I 
enjoyed  you  last  year.  By  the  way,  what  an  ass  Charles 
Cressage  is  making  of  himself  again,  isn't  he?  " 

Beechy  was  graver  than  she  had  been  a  year  ago,  but 
she  was  more  beautiful,  and  she  had  acquired  through  asso- 
ciation and  observation  the  grand  air  that  belonged  to  her 
by  birth. 

The  tragic  woman  of  the  early  spring  was  as  dead,  in 
her  turn,  as  the  child  of  the  preceding  year,  and  behold 
the  Beauty,  armed  cap-a-pie,  self-possessed,  serene,  delight- 
ful. She  had  never,  since  she  came  back,  seen  Cressage 
alone.  They  had  met  more  than  once,  of  course,  but  al- 
ways surrounded  by  others.  And  the  few  commonplace 
words  they  exchanged  were  heard  of  everyone  near. 

He  went  his  way  looking  no  longer  ill  but  inexpressibly 
bored,  which  was  a  sign  for  the  runner  to  read. 

"  Tired  of  Edith  Shallop,  my  dear,"  Beechy  heard  some 
woman  whisper  to  another  one  night  at  a  dance.  "  Just 
look  at  him!" 

Beechy  looked  too. 

Lady  Shallop,  surrounded  by  eager  men  and  boys,  was 
flirting  audaciously  and  near  her,  like  a  patient  footman 
waiting  for  his  services  to  be  required,  stood  Cressage,  his 
arms  folded.  Bored!  Yes,  that  was  the  word.  A  pang 
of  pity  came  over  Beechy,  but  she  turned  away. 

Sometimes  she  wondered  something.  On  Whitsunday 
she  had  received  down  in  Kent,  where  she  was  staying,  a 
big  box  full  of  wall-flowers,  brown  and  gold  ones.  There 
was  no  card,  and  the  box  had  been  brought  by  a  boy  on  a 
bicycle  who  left  no  message. 

Beechy  was  used  to  flowers,  it  was  a  kind  of  fashion, 
set  by  a  young  American  who  had  come  to  London  in  her 


LADY  SHALLOP  353 

wake,  to  send  her  flowers  of  every  kind,  but  no  one,  hith- 
erto, had  sent  her  wall-flowers.  Surely  they  came,  they 
must  come,  from  Cressage.  She  looked  at  them  wistfully. 
If  he  had  sent  them  they  must  be  meant  to  remind  her 
of  the  evening  he  had  knelt  by  her  in  Lady  Cossie's  gar- 
den,— the  evening  when  he  had  asked  her  to  help  him  to 
be  good. 

She  set  her  lips.  She  had  tried  to  help  him.  She  had 
not  failed  him,  it  was  he  who  had  failed  her.  She  went 
for  a  long  walk  that  day,  and  wore  a  brown,  velvety,  wall- 
flower in  her  belt.  When  she  came  back  the  flower  was 
limp  and  faded,  but  she  put  it  away  in  a  little  bag,  with 
some  other  treasures. 

And  all  this  time  no  one  mentioned  her  to  Cressage,  nor 
Cressage  to  her.  One  or  two  men  had,  as  they  put  it,  tried 
to  draw  him,  but  Cressage  was  fierce  and  unpleasant  when 
he  was  annoyed,  so  he  was  let  alone. 

As  to  Beechy,  the  Signora  Evelina  and  Aurelio  never 
mentioned  Cressage's  name  to  her,  nor  did  Lex  Wauchope. 

Wauchope's  mother  died  in  the  spring  and  he  went  about 
in  his  black  clothes,  a  very  little  ghost  of  a  man.  Beechy 
and  he  grew  very  fond  of  each  other  at  this  time,  and  he 
used  to  tell  her  long  stories  about  dead  and  gone  greatnesses 
of  whom  she  knew  nothing.  His  fantastic  dressing  of 
words  pleased  her  very  much,  and  his  preference  for  love- 
stories  over  all  others,  of  course,  appealed  to  her. 

Her  favourite  tale  was  about  Fair  Rosamond  and  her 
bold  Henry.  "  It  would,"  she  used  to  say,  "  make  an 
opera, — Henry  the  tenor,  Rosamond  the  soprano,  and  the 
queen,  of  course,  the  contralto " 

Sometimes  they  would  plan  the  scenes  and  Lex  would 
describe  to  her  the  costumes  she  might  wear.  They  be- 


354  BEECHY 

came  greatly  attached  to  Fair  Rosamond,  these  two  wool- 
gathering friends,  that  spring! 

Early  in  July  Mrs.  Pyecraft  died.  Beechy  received  a 
telegram  just  as  she  was  going  out  to  dinner  on  Sunday, 
and  telephoning  her  excuses,  set  out  as  she  was  to  Fulham 
with  Aurelio.  It  was  a  very  warm  night  with,  in  the 
air,  something  of  the  electricity  that  makes  night  a  thing 
so  wonderful  in  the  South. 

Beechy  was  excited  and  nervous.  "  Poor  old  Aunt  Au- 
gusta," she  said,  "  she'd  hate  my  coming,  if  she  knew,  but 
Uncle  Henry  is  alive  and  must  be  considered  first " 

They  were  in  her  electric  brougham,  a  new  acquisition, 
and  rolled  noiselessly  southwestwards. 

"  She  was  a  very  hard  poor  woman,  very  narrow,"  Au- 
relio said  after  a  while.  He  had  always  resented  Mrs. 
Pyecraft's  attitude  towards  Beechy  regarding  Cressage. 

Beechy  smiled  a  little  sadly.  "  She  was  perfectly  true 
to  her  type,  as  Wauchope  says,"  she  answered.  "  As  she 
thought  me  wicked  she  was  quite  right  not  to  see  me " 

Aurelio  grunted.  "  E  morta,"  he  said,  "  and  as  she  is 
dead  I  say  no  more " 

They  found  St.  Augustine  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Batt, 
the  wealthy  friend  who  of  late  had  become  gratifyingly 
intimate  there,  and  a  Miss  Timotheus,  a  maiden  lady  who 
filled  to  the  best  of  her  ability  the  obsolete  role  of  hired 
mourner  among  her  friends  and  acquaintances. 

"  Where  is  my  uncle  ?  "  Beechy  asked. 

He  was  in  the  back-garden,  poor  old  man,  sitting  in  his 
chair  weeping.  He  looked  very  ridiculous  and  old  and 
broken,  and  Beechy  wept  with  him  herself,  suddenly  bitterly 
unhappy.  She  was  crying  for  her  own  loneliness,  her  own 
ceaseless  heart-ache,  but  this  poor  Uncle  Henry  did  not 


LADY   SHALLOP  355 

know,  and  everyone  of  her  tears  fell  like  balm  into  his 
heart. 

"  She  was  proud  of  Beechy,"  he  moaned.  "  Whatever 
she  said  she  oilers  looked  in  the  Morning  Leader"  he 
sobbed,  "  an'  read  about  the  opera.  Oh,  Beechy,  she  was 
a  good  woman,  and  I  am  all  alone." 

It  was  pathetic.  The  little  garden  was  dusty  and  sun- 
burnt, the  border  of  thrift  hung  faded  in  the  light  from 
the  kitchen  door.  Overhead  a  moon  in  the  first  quarter 
shed  a  warm  light,  glinting  on  the  neatly  tied  up  lettuces 
under  the  window. 

"  I  was  going  to  cut  the  cukes  for  'er  to-morrow,"  the 
old  man  exclaimed,  suddenly,  raising  his  head.  "  Come 
and  look  at  'em!  " 

Beechy  followed  him  down  the  little  path  to  where  the 
glass  of  the  frame  gleamed  like  a  pool  of  water  in  the 
moonlight  among  the  shadows. 

Two  fine  cucumbers  lay  in  the  frame,  portly  and  solemn 
among  the  feathery  leaves  of  some  flourishing  seedlings. 

"  That  there  I  was  agoing  to  cut  for  'er  lunch  to- 
morrow," the  old  man  explained.  "  I  said  to  her,  you 
never  ate  a  better  one  in  your  life,  'Gusta,  I  said,  and 
now " 

Kneeling  down  he  burst  out  crying  again,  and  Beechy, 
her  rose-coloured  cloak  falling  back  from  her  bare  shoul- 
ders, sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  frame,  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 
IN   A  BALCONY 

IT  was  the  third    Friday  in  July  and  Beechy  and  the 
Signora  were  leaving  London  the  next  day.    At  about 
five  o'clock  Beechy  was  sitting  alone  in  her  sitting- 
room.     It  was  extremely  close  and  occasionally  the  sound 
of  far-off  thunder  reached  her.     A  sultry,  ominous  after- 
noon, and  she,  superstitious,  wondered  what  was  going  to 
happen. 

Suddenly — everything  seems  sudden  on  such  days — the 
telephone  bell  rang. 

"AlK?" 

After  an  inarticulate  buzz  she  caught  the  voice.  It  was 
Mrs.  Geoff  Barminster  speaking.  Mrs.  Geoff  who  drcve 
her  own  motors  (this  was  some  years  ago)  and  bred  bull- 
terriers.  And  Mrs.  Geoff  wanted  Beechy  to  make  one  of 
a  party  of  revellers  who  were  going  down  to  Brighton  to 
spend  the  week-end. 

"  It  is  so  hot,"  Mrs.  Geoff's  bluff  voice  boomed  over 
the  buzzing  wires,  "  the  sea  looks  good  to  me.  And  to  you, 
I  hope." 

Beechy  hesitated. 

"  If  it  isn't  a  big  party — I  am  in  mourning  for  an 
aunt, " 

But  Mrs.  Geoff  pooh-pooh'd  the  idea  of  its  being  a  big 
party.  "  Only  two  motors  of  us — nine  or  ten  in  all.  Do 
come." 

356 


IN  A   BALCONY  357 

Now  Beechy,  like  many  superstitious  people,  had  very 
often  been  justified  in  her  forebodings  and  the  like,  and 
as  she  stood  there  in  her  cloud-darkened  room  talking  to 
the  lady  in  Bryanstone  Square,  she  felt  a  sudden  certainty 
that  Cressage  was  to  be  of  the  party. 

She  had  no  reason  for  this  belief,  for  only  a  few  days  be- 
fore Mrs.  Geoff  had  happened  to  mention  to  her  that 
she  knew  him  only  very  slightly.  And  Beechy  was  seized 
with  an  ungovernable  longing  to  see  him,  to  hear  his 
voice. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  "  I  will  come,  and — sank  you 
very  much." 

Then  she  went  and  sat  down  again  and  picked  up  her 
fan.  Ever  since  Mrs.  Pyecraft's  death  she  had  been  trying 
to  get  away  from  town,  but  the  old  man  had  been  ill  and 
she  had  shrunk  from  deserting  him.  Yesterday  she  had 
taken  him  to  his  sister's  house  in  Derbyshire,  and  leaving 
him  comfortably  settled  there  until  the  autumn,  when  he 
was  coming  back  to  Fulham,  she  felt  that  her  task  was  ac- 
complished, and  that  she  was  free  to  go  back  to  Italy. 

And  now — she  was  to  see  Cressage. 

She  had  been  brave,  she  knew,  and  good.  She  had 
made  no  moan,  she  had  gone  her  way,  done  that  which  lay 
at  her  hand  to  do,  and  she  had  held  her  head  high.  Cres- 
sage himself  must,  she  knew,  be  assured  by  this  time  of 
her  complete  indifference. 

But  to-day — the  time  had  come  when  she  must  see  him. 
And  the  god  in  the  car  was  Mrs.  Geoff.  She  smiled  at 
the  Image,  for  Mrs.  Geoff  was  at  that  time  the  woman 
who  of  all  the  women  in  London  knew  the  most  about 
motors.  And — to-night — in  an  hour's  time  she  would  see 
Cressage.  She  told  the  Signora  to  postpone  the  arrange- 


358  BEECHY 

ments  for  their  departure  until  Monday;  she  dressed  and 
sat  down  to  wait.  No  one  came  to  interrupt  her  brood- 
ing, and  she  gave  her  long  pent-up  imagination  a  loose 
rein.  She  remembered,  remembered,  remembered,  until  with 
a  cry  she  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  her  hands 
clasped  on  her  breast. 

It  was  all  no  good.  Nothing  helped.  She  loved  him 
and  must  love  him  until  she  died,  and  the  sooner  she  died, 
the  better.  Tears  burnt  her  eyes,  but  she  wiped  them  away 
and  drank  some  cold  water  to  quiet  her  nerves.  She  won- 
dered suddenly  how  Lady  Charles  was.  She  had  not  seen 
her  since  that  meeting  at  Victoria,  but  some  one  had  told 
her  that  she  was  at  Beckenbrake. 

Beechy  would  have  liked  to  see  her  again,  but  she  had 
not  dared  to  put  herself  in  touch  with  Cressage  even 
through  the  medium  of  his  wife,  and  she  had  never  made 
a  sign  of  life  to  the  older  woman. 

"  I  can  ask  him  to-night,"  the  girl  thought  suddenly. 
"I  can  ask  him!" 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  it. 
She  forgot  his  falseness,  the  suffering  he  had  caused  her, 
the  scorn  his  fair-minded  wife  felt  for  him.  She  remem- 
bered only  the  eyes  of  him  and  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

When  Mrs.  Geoff  came  in  for  her  she  was  ready,  a  red 
rose  in  her  coat,  a  bright  colour  in  her  cheeks. 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  come,"  the  big  woman  said,  roll- 
ing down  the  passage  to  the  lift  (her  father  had  been  an 
admiral  and  she  always  said  she  inherited  his  walk) ,  "  they 
are  all  delighted." 

The  two  motors  were  nearly  full,  but  Cressage  was  not 
there.  Beechy,  placed  between  a  Miss  Peregrine  and  a 
strange  man  who  looked  like  a  Jew  and  instantly  told  her 


IN  A   BALCONY  359 

he  wasn't  one,  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  was  to  be  there, 
she  knew,  but 

"  Now  then,  all  ready?    Off  we  go  to  St.  James's  Place." 

Beechy  burst  into  a  little  laugh,  at  which  Miss  Pere- 
grine not  unnaturally  looked  surprised. 

"  You  are  to  get  in  with  me,  Lord  Charles,"  Mrs. 
Geoff  explained  as  Cressage  came  out  of  his  door.  "  You 
know  Signorina  Cavaleone  and  Miss  Peregrine,  Pickle  for 
short.  Oh,  and  Mr.  Curry." 

She  wasted  no  time  on  ceremony,  Mrs.  Geoff,  and  in  two 
minutes  Cressage  was  sitting  on  Beechy's  left,  while  Mr. 
Curry,  the  Jewish-looking  Gentile,  faced  them. 

Beechy  and  Cressage  had  shaken  hands  and  now  sat  si- 
lent. Mrs.  Geoff's  driving  was  reckless  in  the  extreme  and 
once  or  twice  Miss  Peregrine  gave  a  little  shriek,  and 
Cressage  looked  grave.  It  was  extremely  warm  and  the 
sky  was  black. 

"  We're  in  for  a  ducking,"  observed  Curry  after  a  while. 

Then  he  and  Miss  Peregrine  began  to  talk. 

"  How  much  longer  are  you  to  be  in  England  ?  "  asked 
Cressage  presently. 

Beechy  looked  past  him.  "  I  was  to  have  gone  to-mor- 
row, but  have  put  it  off  until  Monday." 

"  I  ought,"  he  said  in  Italian,  "  to  tell  you  that  I  knew 
you  were  coming  to-day " 

"  I  quite  understand,"  she  said  coldly.  Curry,  bobbing 
about  on  the  little  seat  opposite  Miss  Peregrine,  was  very 
noisy.  Neither  he  nor  the  girl  had  ears  for  anything  but 
their  own  nonsense.  Cressage  sat  forward  and  Beechy 
leaned  away  from  him  into  her  corner,  but  his  arm  touched 
hers  from  the  shoulder  down,  and  she  could  see  him  breathe 
as  she  looked  towards  him  under  her  flat  cap-brim. 


360  BEECHY 

Near  Three  Bridges  the  other  motor  left  them  behind, 
for  something  had  happened  to  one  of  Mrs.  Geoff's  tires 
and  she  and  the  mechanician  got  out  and  began  to  tinker 
at  it. 

"  You  see  to  the  rooms,  Geoff,"  she  called  in  her  great 
voice,  "  and  order  dinner,  we'll  not  be  long." 

Miss  Peregrine  and  Curry  got  out  and  sat  down  on  a 
dusty  bank  by  the  road. 

"  Do  you  care  to  get  out?  "  asked  Cressage. 

"No,  thanks." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  closely.  "  Do  you  wish 
to  be  let  alone,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  or  may  I  talk  to 
you?" 

"  Just  as  you  like." 

He  paused  for  a  minute  and  then  went  on  doggedly: 
"  Well — I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  my  explaining  ?  " 

It  was  such  happiness  just  to  be  near  him  and  hear  him 
speak  that  a  little  laugh  came  to  her  lips. 

"  Explaining?     But  there  is  no  need,"  she  said. 

He  misunderstood  her  laugh  and  relapsed  into  an  angry 
silence.  Presently  she  said,  "  How  is  your  wife?" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  he  said  gently, 
"  Beatrice, — I  know  what  a  beast  I  am,  but — do  you  be- 
lieve that  I  am  sorry  for  hurting  you — if  it  did  hurt  you," 
he  added  in  haste,  to  give  her  a  loophole  if  she  should 
choose  to  accept  it. 

But  she  did  not.  "  Hurt?  Yes,  it  hurt.  But  it's  quite 
all  right  now." 

"  I  love  you,  you  know,"  he  added,  not  in  an  access  of 
passion,  but  in  a  quiet,  matter-of-fact  voice  as  if  no  one 
could  ever  have  doubted  his  love. 


77V  "A  BALCONY  361 

She  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment  and  then  she  repeated 
slowly,  "You  love  me?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  have  always  loved  you.  Oh,  I  can't  ex- 
pect you  to  understand,  no  woman  ever  would, — at  least 
no  girl.  But  it  is  true  all  the  same.  My  God,"  he  went 
on,  facing  her  again,  and  speaking  very  rapidly,  "  you 
don't  think  I  ever  felt  about  Edith  Shallop  as  I  did  about 
you?  Can't  you  remember  the  villa?" 

She  did  not  answer  until  he  had  repeated  his  question, 
and  then  she  said  shortly,  "  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  Now,  then,  children,  in  you  get,"  roared  Mrs.  Geoff, 
rubbing  her  hands  together  and  then  putting  on  her  gog- 
gles. "That  little  job's  done!" 

Miss  Peregrine  and  her  admirer  obeyed,  and  as  the  motor 
started  off  with  a  bound,  Cressage  went  on  talking. 

"  If  you  had  seen  me  when  you  first  came  back,  I  would 
have  told  you — at  least — what  I  could — but  you  wouldn't. 
You  didn't  help  me  much,"  he  added  bitterly,  and  Beechy 
laughed. 

"  Help  you!     Did  you  need  it?" 

She  spoke  scoffingly,  but  he  paid  no  heed  to  her  tone.- 

"  Yes,  I  did, — if  a  man  tottering  on  the  brink  of  Heaven 
over  Hell  needs  help.  I  loved  you,  I  tell  you.  That  is 
what  you  didn't  realise." 

"  I  say,  Signorina  Cavaleone,"  began  Miss  Peregrine 
suddenly  at  this  point,  "which  do  you  think  sings  the 
best,  Aubepin  or  Subiaco?  " 

Beechy  answered  her,  and  the  conversation  remained 
general  for  a  long  time.  When  it  had  ceased  Beechy 
leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  What  would  happen 
next? 

By  seven  o'clock  they  were  nearly  at  Brighton. 


362  BEECHY 

"  We're  going  to  dine  and  then  take  a  spin  by  moon- 
light— if  there  is  a  moon,"  explained  their  jovial  hostess. 

Cressage  darted  a  quick  glance  at  Beechy. 

"  Don't  go,"  he  said  in  Italian,  using  an  involved  phrase 
to  express  his  meaning,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

At  ten  o'clock  they  sat  alone  together  on  the  balcony  of 
Mrs.  Geoff's  sitting-room.  The  others  had  gone  to  East- 
bourne piled  into  one  motor. 

Beechy,  in  her  black  frock,  looked  very  pale  in  the  moon- 
light. Cressage  saw  it.  "  You  are  tired,"  he  said  sud- 
denly, sitting  down  by  her  and  frowning. 

"  Yes.  I  have  had  a  sad  time  of  late.  My  poor  old 
uncle  has  been  very  ill  and  very  unhappy " 

"  Your  uncle  ?     Cavaleone  ?  " 

"  My  Uncle  Pyecraft,  in  Fulham.  His  wife  died  a  little 
while  ago." 

"  Poor  Beatrice "  After  a  pause  he  went  on  in  a 

low  voice. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  beg  your  pardon, — I  have  no  right 
to  assume  that  you  will  pardon  me.  But  you  wrote  that 
you  did, " 

"Yes." 

"  And — if  you  knew  how  miserable  I  have  been  the 
whole  time  since  you  left  for  America — you  would  be  sorry 
for  me." 

And  looking  at  his  face  she  knew  that  he  spoke  the 
truth. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Carlo,"  she  said  gently. 

All  the  wild  feelings  of  the  early  afternoon  had  fled, 
leaving  in  their  place  the  old  sensation  of  rest,  the  sensation 
she  had  always  experienced  in  his  presence.  It  was  a  feel- 
ing of  having  reached  home  at  last,  although  she  knew  it 


72V  A  BALCONY  363 

could  not  last.  Yes,  it  was  home.  She  longed  to  take  his 
hand  and  comfort  him,  but  something  kept  her  hands 
quietly  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  black,  sil- 
ver-edged clouds  that  were  scudding  about  in  the  sky. 

"  It — I  missed  you  unbearably,  Beatrice.  That  is — that 
is  why  I  got  into  mischief.  If — if  you  had  never  heard  of 
it,  I  honestly  believe  it  would  have  passed  away  with  no 
harm  to  anyone." 

"And— to  her?" 

"  Lady ?  Ah,  bah !  "  he  laughed  contemptuously. 

"  She  simply  doesn't  count,  my  dear.  But  that's  what  I 
can't  expect  you  to  understand.  But  you  did  find  out  and 
— you  wouldn't  see  me.  Mind  you,  I  am  not  blaming  you. 
You  were  perfectly  right.  A  man  who  can't  be  faithful 
for  six  months  to  the  woman  he  adores  deserves  all  he  gets, 
— he  is  a  swine,  but — there  you  are, — I  am  the  man  who 
couldn't  be  faithful  to — to  you,  great  God!  What  I  mean 
is  that  when  you  cast  me  off  she  seemed — well, — all  I  had 
left  and  I — tried  to  make  the  best  of  her,  and  to — to  stick 
to  her." 

Beechy  did  not  answer.  By  this  time  she  had  heard 
from  more  sources  than  one  what  kind  of  a  woman  Lady 
Shallop  was,  and  she  felt  no  squeamish  reluctance  to  hear- 
ing her  enemy  given  her  due.  She  was  primitive  enough 
to  enjoy  Cressage's  open  scorn  of  the  woman  who  had  been 
no  more  to  him  than  she  had  been  to  several  other  men. 
But  she  could  not  decide  what  to  say  and  therefore  she 
was  silent. 

"  Try,"  he  said  after  a  long  pause,  "  not  to  judge  me 
too  harshly." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  rose. 

"  I  do  not  judge  you  harshly,"  she  answered  in  a  low 


364  BEECHY 

voice.  "  It  is  all  done  with  now, — and  indeed  I  did  for- 
give you  when  I  wrote  you  I  did." 

He  looked  at  her  hopelessly.  He  had  spoken  the  absolute 
truth.  At  she  stood  there  she  seemed  to  him  the  embodi- 
ment of  all  earthly  perfections. 

"  Beatrice," — he  cried  suddenly,  drawing  her  to  him  by 
the  hand  he  still  held,  "  could  you " 

But  she  stopped  him  by  a  gesture. 

"  Hush,  no, — and — good-night " 

She  was  gone,  and  he  sat  smoking  in  solitude  until  the 
others  came  back,  tired  and  clamouring  for  food  and  drink. 

"  Miss — the  furrin  lady  went  to  bed  before  eleven, 
Madam,"  Mrs.  Geoff's  maid  told  her.  "  She  'ad  a  'ead- 
ache,  and  asked  me  to  unhook  her  frock." 

"  Poor  Lord  Charles,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Geoff,  bustling 
on  to  the  balcony  a  moment  later.  "  I  am  sorry.  I  thought 
you'd  have  a  delightful  evenin',  but  how  bored  you  must 
have  been." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  returned  politely,  "  I  was  not  bored." 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

"  CERTAINLY   THE   LORDSHIP   OF   Lovs   is   GOOD  " 

ONE  afternoon  late  in  the  following  March  Beatrice 
Cavaleone  stood  by  the  fireside  in  her  little  house 
in  Buckingham  Gate,  reading  a  letter. 

She  had  been  in  Russia  all  the  winter  and  looked  the 
better  for  the  bracing  cold  there,  but  her  eyes  were  red 
with  crying  and  she  wore  a  black  gown. 

War  was  claiming  its  hideous  payment,  and  among  those 
who  had  fallen  in  South  Africa  were  gallant  young  Cricket 
Londale,  whose  broken  old  father  had  just  left  her. 

"  He  told  me  about  you,"  Sir  William  had  said,  hold- 
ing her  hand,  "  and  in  the  last  letter  I  had  from  him  he 
enclosed  this,  for  you,  and  asked  me  to  come  and  see  you." 

Beechy  read  the  letter,  and  then  as  the  suddenly  frail  old 
man  put  his  hands  over  his  face,  she  knelt  by  him  and  held 
him  in  her  strong  young  arms,  her  tears  wetting  his  white 
hair. 

It  was  a  daring,  a  demonstrative  thing  for  a  stranger 
to  do,  and  no  English  woman  in  the  circumstances  would 
have  done  it,  but  Beechy  did  not  know  that,  nor  would 
she  have  cared  if  she  had  known.  And  the  bitter-tongued 
old  politician  wept  as  he  had  been  unable  to  weep  hitherto, 
all  the  weeks  since  the  news  came. 

After  a  time  he  sat  up,  wiped  his  eyes  and  asked  her 
gently,  "  And  you,  my  dear,  you  too  have  lost  someone?" 

365 


366  BEECHY 

"  I  have  lost  Cricket,"  she  said  simply.  "  He  was  my 
friend." 

Since  the  young  fellow's  death  no  one  had  dared  call 
him  by  his  nick-name  to  his  father.  He  had  been  spoken  of 
as  "  Gerald,"  and  now  Sir  William  smiled.  "  Ah,  yes — 
'  Cricket.'  You  called  him  that.  And  you  are  wearing 
black " 

Beechy  made  a  little  gesture  expressing  a  difficulty  of 
explanation.  "  Ah, — I  love  England,"  she  answered,  "  and 
so  many  are  gone — I  do  not  care  for  colour  just  now. 
Lady  Cossie  Bleck  calls  me  an  eediot, — I  think  she  thinks 
I  have  no  right  to  a  black  frock,  as  I  am  '  only  an  Italian,' 
but " 

Sir  William  rose.  In  ordinary  days  her  garb  of  woe 
might  have  seemed  to  him  as  it  did  to  some  others,  either 
an  affectation,  or  an  unwarranted  assumption  of  what  Ger- 
mans call  "  a  share-taking," — "  theilnahme."  But  now 
the  stricken  old  man  saw  in  it  the  honest  sympathy  and 
tribute  it  was,  and  he  forgot  to  say  to  himself  that  theat- 
rical women  do  theatrical  things. 

He  took  his  leave  and  Beechy  read  her  letter.  It  was 
from  Mafeking.  Short,  merely  a  few  words  of  gallant 
excitement,  and  of  affectionate  turning  of  his  heart  home- 
wards. "  Of  course  I  know  you  are  unhappy,"  he  said,  at 
the  last,  "  and  I  do  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  things  may 
turn  out  all  right.  All  my  love  to  you.  Cricket." 

Beechy  kissed  the  paper  and  wept  over  it. 

She  had  had  a  busy  summer,  and  a  busier  winter.  All 
summer  long  she  and  the  Signora  were  in  Italy,  first  at 
Salsomaggiore,  where  she  took  a  cure  for  her  rather  tired 
throat,  then  in  the  mountains  near  Turin,  where  she 
had  hired  a  shabby  little  villa.  Her  accompanist  was  with 


"THE  LORDSHIP  OF  LOVE  IS  GOOD"    367 

her  and  she  learned  "  La  Boheme,"  in  which  she  was  to  make 
her  next  season's  debut  in  London. 

It  was  not  an  unhappy  time.  The  Signora,  comfortable 
fat  lady,  released  from  the  bonds  London  imposed  on  her, 
sat  about  in  loose  garments  from  morning  till  night,  not 
infrequently  lamenting  over  Beechy's  amazing  ardour  in  the 
matter  of  learning. 

Why,  after  working  all  winter  and  making  all  that 
money,  need  the  girl  work  at  French  and  English  all 
summer? 

But  Beechy  only  smiled  and  worked  on. 

In  the  neighbourhood  there  was  a  large  Hydropathic 
among  whose  guests  were  a  young  Englishwoman  and  an 
old  Frenchman,  both  more  than  willing  to  help  pay  for 
their  expenses  by  giving  lessons.  Every  other  afternoon 
they  came,  turn  and  turn  about,  and  with  them  Beechy 
made  steady  progress  in  the  two  languages.  The  ambitious 
Miss  Smith  (whom  Beechy  first  hailed  as  a  probable  rela- 
tion) introduced  her  to  Carlyle,  but  of  him  the  prima  donna 
would  none,  clamouring  for  Dickens,  of  whom  she  knew 
already  a  little,  and  who  remained  her  favourite  author. 

Perhaps  she  was  not  so  much  bent  on  improving  as  she 
was  on  occupying  her  mind.  However  that  might  be,  she 
worked  hard,  even  learning  some  poetry  by  heart. 

M.  Ferrier,  the  old  Frenchman,  taught  her  to  speak  his 
beautiful  language  far  more  correctly  as  to  accent  than  she 
ever  learned  to  speak  English,  but  she  refused  the  classics 
to  a  man,  until  one  day  he  had  an  inspiration  and  wrote  to 
Paris  for  a  copy  of  Laboulaye. 

Fairy  tales  she  loved,  and — they  were  absolutely  new  to 
her.  Her  first  comment  upset  her  teacher. 

"They  rather  remind  me  of  the  lives  of  the  saints,"  she 


368  BEECHY 

said  innocently,  and  he,  very  devout,  was  frightened.  But 
seeing  her  the  next  day  in  the  ugly  little  village  church 
praying  busily,  he  took  heart  of  grace. 

Aurelio  that  summer  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  a 
long  time.  Beechy  was  busy,  cheerful,  and  well,  and  the 
faithful  young  man  began  to  hope  that  she  was  forgetting 
Cressage. 

One  day  Beechy  followed  Aurelio  into  the  garden  where 
he  was  smoking.  "  Aurelio,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  sing 
in  a  charity  concert  in  Rome  in  November — it  is  for  the 
people  in  that  place  that  was  destroyed  by  fire, — Val 
d'Anca. 

"  But  you  were  going " 

"  I  know.  But  I'll  arrange  that.  You  see, — I  like  to 
— to  help  with  my  voice.  It  is — a  kind  of  trust,  isn't  it? 
Besides,  it  makes  me  happier  to  sing  for  people,  not  just 
for  money." 

"  You  are  very  good,  Bici."  The  young  man  threw  away 
his  cigarette  and  put  his  hands  into  his  jacket  pockets. 

"  I  ?  Nonsense,  Aurelio,  I  am  not  good  at  all.  Think 
how  disagreeable  I  was  to  you  the  other  day  about  that  let- 
ter you  forgot.  I  am,"  she  burst  out  dramatically,  her  eyes 
wide,  "  a  horrible  tyrant,  that's  what  I  am,  Aurelio !  " 

Aurelio  smiled  at  her,  and  then  said  seriously,  "  Bici — 
may  I  speak  to  you  about — about  that  little  book,  Dante's 
'Vita  Nuova'?" 

She  nodded.     "Yes." 

"  Well — I  have  been  thinking  about  it  of  late.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  this  before  we  left  London,  but  I — I  didn't 
quite  like  to.  You  remember  that  about  The  Lordship  of 
Love?" 

Again  she  nodded.  He  could  see  that  she  remembered 
the  words. 


"THE  LORDSHIP  OF  LOVE  IS  GOOD"    369 

"  Well, — one  day  in  London  I  was  reading  the  book  and 
I  found  another  sentence  about — that.  I  wanted  to  show 

it  to  you,  but "  he  hesitated,  his  brown  eyes  fixed  on 

hers. 

"  Tell  it  to  me  now,  Aurelio." 

Gently  she  held  out  her  hand,  with  the  gentleness  which, 
coming,  a  quite  new  quality,  just  at  the  time  when  her 
suffering  had  been  the  most  acute,  gave  such  appositeness 
to  his  discovery  in  the  little  book. 

Holding  her  hand  he  gave  the  quotation: 

"  Certainly  the  Lordship  of  Love  is  good, 
Seeing  that  it  diverts  the  mind  from  all  mean  things — " 

There  was  a  pause.  He  longed  to  tell  her  how  clearly 
he  saw  that  it  was  diverting  her  mind  from  mean  things, 
from  her  old  self-centredness,  her  ruthlessness,  her  occa- 
sional violence,  her  selfishness. 

But  he  dared  not. 

Her  eyes  slowly  filled  with  tears.  "  Thank  you,  Aurelio, 
dear,"  she  said  in  a  soft  voice.  Then  she  left  him. 

One  day  she  received  a  letter  in  dressage's  writing,  and 
after  a  long  disappearance  into  the  pine  woods  behind  the 
villa,  came  back  pale  and  tired-looking. 

"  Oh,  Beatrice "  he  burst  out,  in  spite  of  himself. 

She  smiled.  "  Don't,  Aurelio,  dear.  He  wants  to  come 
and  see  me.  But  I  have  written  to  say  no " 

She  sat  down,  closing  her  eyes  wearily.  "  You  see,"  she 
went  on,  half  to  herself,  half  to  him,  as  he  stood  looking  at 
her  in  silence,  "  there  is  no  use.  He  is  not  to  be  trusted." 

"  But — if  he  still  loves  you,  'dear,  you  ought  to  forgive — 
his  little  unfaithfulness — men  are  like  that,  and  if  his  heart 
is  true  to  you " 


370  BEECHY 

For  the  first  time  Beechy  claimed  her  Anglo-Saxon  blood. 

"  No.  I  am  half-English,  remember,  Aurelio,  and — my 
man  must  be  faithful  to  me." 

He  said  no  more,  and  Beechy,  having  departed  from  her 
long  silence,  handed  him  the  letter.  It  was  short  and 
matter  of  fact  in  tone,  telling  her  that  Cressage  was  to  be  in 
Italy  in  September,  and  asking  her  if  he  might  come  to  see 
her. 

He  did  not  write  again. 

Once  Lady  Charles  wrote  to  her  asking  for  money  for 
Sky  Hill.  "  We  have  had  to  turn  away  a  good  many," 
the  letter  said,  "  and  we  are  out  of  funds.  I  have  done 
all  I  could,  but  you  know  how  many  claims  there  are  on 
me, " 

It  then  went  on  to  ask  Beechy  not  to  forget  her  promise 
to  come  to  Beckenbrake,  and,  from  thence,  visit  Sky  Hill 
and  sing  to  the  girls  at  one  of  their  parties.  No  mention 
of  Lord  Charles  was  made. 

The  first  of  October  Beechy  went  to  Rome.  Signora 
Evelina  was  obliged  to  stay  in  Turin  to  nurse  a  sister  who 
had  been  very  ill,  and  Beechy  and  Aurelio  travelled  south 
together. 

She  left  him  at  the  door  of  the  convent,  and  a  moment 
later  sat  among  the  delighted  Sisters  in  the  refectory. 

She  spent  a  month  in  the  quiet  place,  working,  and  play- 
ing with  the  children  before  going  north. 

It  was  fine  weather,  a  dreamy  golden  October.  The 
garden  in  which  she  had  dug  as  a  child  was  still  gay  with 
flowers,  the  fig-tree  in  the  corner  covered  with  sweet  purple 
fruit. 

Beechy  wore  a  coarse  grey  frock  made  by  the  tailor-Sister, 
and  a  flat  brown  hat  like  the  one  she  had  worn  years  ago. 


"THE    LORDSHIP    OF   LOVE   IS    GOOD"    371 

Once  when  she  was  walking  in  the  long  line  of  children 
as  they  took  their  walk  she  was  startled  by  meeting  the 
young  marquis  who  had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  He 
was  walking  with  another  man,  and  they  both,  it  seemed  to 
her,  stared  straight  into  her  face.  But  they  did  not  know 
her  and  she  went  her  way  laughing.  "  Fine  fezzars,"  she 
said  to  herself,  employing  one  of  the  proverbs  she  had 
learned  in  the  summer,  "  make  ze  bird!  " 

She  was  now  very  proud  of  her  English. 

Often  she  used  to  read  aloud  to  Father  Antonio  or  to  the 
Mother  Superior  whose  eyes,  after  her  operation,  had  re- 
mained delicate. 

Sister  Catherine,  she  of  the  legendary  lore,  found  in  the 
great  lady  who  had  once  been  little  Bici,  a  wonderful 
listener.  Beechy  sat  with  her  by  the  hour,  working  away 
at  the  vegetables  while  her  old  friend  told  her  stories  of  the 
Saints.  They  were,  Beechy  thought,  nearly  as  good  as 
Laboulaye. 

All  the  simplicity  of  her  character  was  now  in  the  ascend- 
ant. Life  seemed  to  her  a  pleasant  thing,  although  there 
was  always  in  her  heart  the  wound  that  opened  at  a  touch. 

And  after  all  she  was  only  twenty-three. 

One  day  there  was  an  awful  scene  in  the  garden.  The 
post  had  come  and  after  reading  her  letters  Beechy  unfolded 
her  English  papers.  She  was  sitting  quietly  there  under  the 
trees,  Mother  Maria  Maddalena  beside  her,  when  suddenly 
she  rose,  her  face  white  with  rage,  her  eyes  full  of  hatred. 

"  Liar !  "  she  cried,  furiously.  "  The  animal,  the  can- 
aglia!"  And  then,  in  the  quiet  place,  she  used  words  that 
caused  the  poor  Mother  Superior  to  cross  herself  with 
trembling  fingers. 

"  Bici,  Bici,  stop !  "     The  old  woman's  voice  was  stern. 


372  BEECHY 

But  Beechy  was  walking  up  and  down,  muttering  to 
herself,  the  newspaper  twisted  in  her  hands. 

Nuns  have  much  dignity. 

Mother  Maria  Maddalena  rose  quietly.  "  When  you 
have  come  to  your  senses,  my  child,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you." 

Then  she  went  into  the  house. 

Three  hours  later  Beechy  knocked  at  her  door. 

"  Forgive  me,  Madre  cara,"  the  girl  said,  kneeling  im- 
pulsively by  her,  "  I  am  so  sorry." 

Someone  had  started  a  story  that  Cavaleone  had  lost  her 
voice  and  would  be  obliged  to  retire.  She  had  wired  at 
once  to  the  principal  papers,  and  that  afternoon  went  to 
Professor  Archangeli,  the  great  throat  specialist,  and  after 
singing  for  him  and  having  her  throat  thoroughly  examined, 
had  made  him  write  a  certificate  to  the  effect  that  her  voice 
and  throat  were  in  magnificent  condition. 

This  she  sent  to  the  powers  that  be  at  Covent  Garden 
Opera  House.  Then  she  went  and  apologised  to  the  Mother 
Superior. 

The  next  week,  however,  brought  her  dozens  of  letters 
from  friends,  acquaintances,  and  perfect  strangers,  asking 
for  the  truth,  sympathising,  hoping  that  their  sympathy  was 
unnecessary. 

The  girl  was  greatly  touched.  She  felt  an  immense  love 
for  all  these  people  who  loved  her  voice,  for  her  voice  was 
the  best  part  of  herself,  and  who  loved  her  voice  loved  her. 

She  answered  all  the  letters,  and  when  the  two  misin- 
formed newspapers  apologised,  she  wrote  her  forgiveness  to 
them. 

In  November,  after  the  concert,  she  went  to  Milan  and 
then  on  to  Berlin,  where  she  sang  in  a  concert,  by  special 


"THE    LORDSHIP    OF    LOVE    IS    GOOD"    373 

permission  from  the  opera  people  in  Petersburg;  and  then 
came  her  wonderful  winter  in  that  city. 

She  was  very  gay;  very  brilliant,  but — her  England  was 
in  mourning,  and  the  papers  were  full  of  bad  news  for  her. 
Charles  Cressage  had  rejoined  his  old  regiment  and  sailed 
early  in  November.  She  knew  this  from  the  papers,  but 
Lady  Charles  wrote,  too. 

"  You  will,  I  am  sure,  be  glad  to  know  that  Charles  has 
gone  to  the  front.  Even  if  he  should  be  killed  I  shall  be 
glad  he  went.  It  is  the  right  life  for  a  man." 

And  Beechy  was  glad,  too.  Somehow  she  never  feared 
for  his  life.  She  feared  for  Tom  Bridport  and  for  Cricket 
Londale  and  for  one  or  two  others,  but  never  for  him. 

He  was  at  Modder  River  and  at  Colenso, — where  poor 
Bridport  lost  a  leg. 

Then  came  the  siege  of  Ladysmith.  "  I  feel,"  wrote 
Lady  Charles,  "that  Ladysmith  will  fall  and  that  he  will 
be  killed." 

But  still  Beechy  was  not  afraid.  When  her  season  in 
Petersburg  was  over  she  sent  Aurelio  on  ahead  to  London 
to  take  a  house  for  her,  and  she  and  the  Signora  went  to 
Paris  for  a  few  weeks.  Cricket  Londale  fell  at  Mafeking, 
Lady  Cossie  had  lost  a  cousin,  and  the  Honourable  Bob 
Romney  was  dead  of  enteric.  London  was  a  tragic  place 
and  the  first  time  Beechy  went  out,  dressed  in  a  gay  blue 
frock,  she  met  a  dozen  women  she  knew,  all  in  black.  Feel- 
ing herself  to  be  a  heartless  monster,  she  ordered  black  frocks 
and  wore  them  despite  the  Signora's  superstitious  horror. 

That  March  afternoon  when  Sir  William  Londale 
brought  her  the  letter  from  his  dead  son,  Beechy  had  been 
in  London  ten  days.  She  had  seen  Mrs.  Bridport  and  her 
husband  and  watched  with  a  sick  heart  his  forced  jollity 


374  BEECHY 

over  his  crutches.  She  had  seen  Lex  Wauchope,  who  told 
her  all  the  news,  and  she  had  written  to  Lady  Charles 
but  received  no  answer. 

It  was  a  blustering,  cold  afternoon,  reminding  her  of  the 
days  when  she  was  following  Cressage,  and  she  sat  close 
to  the  fire  in  her  little  drawing-room. 

Cricket's  brave  little  letter  on  her  lap,  she  sat  looking  into 
the  red  coals. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  the  parlour-maid  appeared. 

"  Lady  Charles  Cressage,  Miss.' 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 
BEICHY  TAKES  UP  A  NEW  DUTY 

MY    dear,"    Lady    Charles    said,    "he    has    come 
back." 
"Come  back!" 

"  Yes.  Invalided  home.  It  seems  he  had  fever  in  Lady- 
smith  and  never  got  over  it.  They  had  to  carry  him  out  of 
Mafeking,  and  they  have  sent  him  home.  He  didn't  write 
to  me,  of  course,  but  when  he  got  home  he  sent  for  me. 
Put  on  your  things  and  come." 

There  she  stood,  the  bringer  of  news,  badly-dressed,  red- 
nosed,  bony,  absurd,  but  for  her  look  of  breeding. 

Beechy  stared  at  her  as  if  she  had  been  an  angel  with 
azure  wings. 

"  I  am  to  come  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"Yes.     He  is  ill,  so  of  course,  that  changes  everything." 

"  Of  course." 

Cressage  might  be  unfaithful,  careless, — he  might  have 
been  far  worse  than  he  was,  but  his  illness  changed  every- 
thing. If  he  wanted  her  he  should  have  her. 

Without  a  word  she  went  upstairs  and  as  she  was  putting 
on  her  hat  Lady  Charles  called  to  her. 

"  Bring  your  dressing-case,  he  is  at  Beckenbrake." 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  in  the  motor. 

"Is  he  dying?"  asked  the  girl,  after  several  minutes  of 
unbroken  silence. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  He  was  fairly  well  when  he  sailed, 
but  got  worse  on  the  ship." 

375 


376  BEECHY 

Beckenbrake  is  in  Kent,  just  over  the  border  from  Sur- 
rey. The  wind  blew  and  gusts  of  rain  blurred  the  win- 
dows as  the  powerful  motor  flew  south-eastwards.  They 
talked  little,  both  were  busy  with  their  thoughts.  As  they 
passe'd  Mitcham,  Beechy  asked  suddenly: 

"  Does  he  know  I  am  coming?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Lady  Charles,  shortly.     "  He  knows." 

She  offered  no  explanations  beyond  the  main  facts  she 
had  given,  and  Beechy  asked  no  more. 

It  was  enough  to  her  that  she  was  going  to  him. 

Three  miles  out  of  Epsom  the  motor  broke  down  and  for 
an  hour  the  two  women  walked  up  and  down  the  road 
in  the  chilly  'dusk,  while  the  chauffeur  worked.  Beechy, 
from  long  habit,  tied  a  silk  scarf  closely  about  her  throat 
and  turned  up  her  coat  collar,  but  she  did  not  really  feel 
the  cold.  Her  voice  was  forgotten  except  subconsciously. 
Her  whole  mind  was  occupied  with  Charles  Cressage. 

"  People  will  think  him  mad  for  coming  to  my  house," 
Lady  Charles  burst  out  suddenly,  as  they  settled  them- 
selves once  more  in  the  motor,  "  and  me  mad  for  taking  him 
in,  but  that  doesn't  in  the  least  matter." 

"  Of  course  not." 

Again  the  busy  silence  fell.  After  a  long  time  the  elder 
woman  spoke  again. 

"  We  are  nearly  there,  Beechy,"  she  said,  "  and — the  thing 
for  you  to  remember,  is — not  what  he  is,  dear,  but — that 
you  love  him." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Beechy. 

"After  all,"  went  on  Lady  Charles,  laying  her  hand  on 
the  girl's,  "  that  is  all  that  matters ;  what  we  give,  not  what 
we  get." 

Presently  the  motor  .stopped  and  they  got  out  at  a  long 


BEECHY   TAKES   UP  A  NEW  DUTY      377 

stone  terrace  at  the  top  of  which  an  open  door  sent  out  a 
broad  shaft  of  light. 

"  How  is  his  lordship,  Putnam  ?  " 

"  A  little  better,  my  Lady,  the  nurses  say." 

Unbuttoning  her  motor  coat,  the  same  one  in  which  she 
had  appeared  nearly  two  years  before  at  Lady  Cossie's,  Lady 
Charles  tore  it  off  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor  before  the 
man  could  turn  from  the  door  he  was  closing. 

"  Come,"  she  said. 

Beechy  followed  her  up  the  broad  uncarpeted  oak  stairs, 
down  a  long  passage  with  doors  on  one  side,  windows  on 
the  other,  through  a  pleasant  little  dark  red  room  with  a 
huge  fire  on  the  hearth.  Then  she  stopped. 

"  Wait  here  for  a  moment,"  she  said,  and  opened  a  door 
and  disappeared. 

Beechy  stood  by  the  fire.  This  then  was  Beckenbrake, 
where  Lady  Charles,  that  mad  creature,  as  many  people 
called  her,  lived  her  lonely,  unselfish  life. 

Beechy  loved  Charles  Cressage,  but  she  never  for  a  second 
doubted  that  the  faults  between  him  and  his  wife  were  all 
on  his  side. 

And  here,  when  he  was  ill  and  sad,  the  prodigal  hus- 
band had  crept  back,  sure  of  a  kind  welcome. 

Surely  the  ugly,  grotesque  woman  was  one  of  the  good 
of  this  world. 

"  Beatrice — will  you  come  ?  " 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted,  but  a  fire  was  burning  redly, 
and  its  flickering  flames  danced  over  the  sick  man's  face. 
His  eyes  were  open,  and  as  they  fell  on  Beechy,  he  smiled  a 
gay  little  smile. 

"  How  good  of  you,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"  Now  that  I  am  ill  you  are  both  kind  to  me." 


378  BEECHY 

Lady  Charles  told  the  girl  to  sit  down  and  then,  rather 
suddenly,  she  sat  down  herself. 

"  He  is  better,"  she  said,  "  the  nurse  tells  me  he  is  much 
better.  It  was  the  fatigue  of  landing  that  made  him  seem 
so  much  worse." 

He  looked  very  ill,  however,  and  Beechy's  lips  shook 
as  she  watched  his  face. 

"Beatrice,"  he  said,  "will  you  forgive  me?" 

"Yes.     I   do— I   did— always." 

He  frowned  impatiently.  "  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean, 
will  you  give  me  another  chance  ?  " 

His  voice  was  so  weak  that  she  had  to  lean  towards  him 
to  hear  the  last  words. 

Then  she  sat  back  in  her  chair,  her  cheeks  scarlet. 

"  Say  yes,  Beechy."  It  was  Lady  Charles  who  said 
the  words. 

Beechy  clasped  her  hands  tightly.  "  But — how  can  I — 

how  can  we "  she  murmured,  confusedly.  "  I  don't 

see " 

The  sick  man  held  out  his  hands.  "  Kitty,  take  my  hand. 
And  you  Beechy " 

The  two  women  knelt  by  him  obediently  and  he  smiled 
his  old  beautiful  smile,  but  touched  by  something  between 
pity  and  tenderness.  "  Tell  her,  Kitty,"  he  said. 

"  H'm!  Well,  Beechy,  I  told  you  in  the  motor  to  for- 
get what  he  is,  and  to  remember  only  that  you  love  him. 
He  is  ill  now  and — pathetic,  but  he  is  going  to  get  well,  and 
— you  know  our  English  saying  about  the  impossibility  of 
teaching  an  old  dog  new  tricks." 

Cressage  burst  into  a  feeble  laugh,  and  then  drew  his 
wife's  bony  hand  to  his  lips.  "  You  mean  the  one  about 
the  silk  purse,  Kitty." 


BEECHY    TAKES   UP  A  NEW  DUTY       379 

Lady  Charles  did  not  seem  to  notice  what  he  had  said. 
"  He  will  not  really  reform,"  she  went  on  slowly,  "  he  will 
always — more  or  less — run  after  women.  He  will  cause 
you  many  a  heartache.  And  you  will  wish — many  things. 
But — "  her  voice  changed  and  the  incorrigible  artist  in 
Beechy  watched  eagerly  the  priestess-like  look  in  her  weather- 
beaten  face — "  he  loves  you.  His  love,  that  is  to  say  the 
best  there  is  in  him,  is  yours.  In  spite  of  everything  I, 
who  you  know  am  not  at  all  prejudiced  in  his  favour,  am 
convinced  of  that.  The  best  of  him  is  yours.  And — this 
being  so,  will  you,  as  he  put  it  a  moment  ago,  give  him 
another  chance  ?  " 

To  Beechy  it  seemed  that  the  wall  opposite  her  rocked 
as  if  in  an  earthquake. 

She  stared  at  Lady  Charles  and  saw  that  the  elder 
woman's  wrinkled  brow  was  covered  with  drops  of  sweat. 

"  I — I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  I  suppose 
I  am  stupid,  but " 

"  Tell  us  just  what  you  think,  my  dear,"  answered  Lady 
Charles. 

"  I  think — I  fear — it's  no  use,"  the  girl  answered.  "  I — 
it  nearly  killed  me.  I  don't  think  I  could  live  through  it 
again.  Nobody  knows  how — how  bad  it  was." 

They  did  not  answer  and  after  clearing  her  throat  she 
went  on. 

"  I  think  you  are  an  angel,  Lady  Charles,  and — yes,  I 
love  you,  Carlo,  just  as  I  always  did,  only  more,  because 
I — seem  to  understand  things  better  now.  But — I  couldn't 
go  on  seeing  you." 

"  He  will  be  goo'd,  Beechy." 

She  gave  a  little  forlorn  laugh.  "You  know  he 
couldn't!  "  she  said.  "You  said  so  yourself! " 


38o  BEECHY, 

Then  Lady  Charles  drew  her  to  her  feet  and  sitting  down 
in  the  big  chair  she  had  left  to  kneel  by  the  bed,  made  the 
girl  sit  beside  her. 

"  Beechy,"  she  said  tenderly,  "  listen  to  me.  I  failed  in 
my  duty.  I  gave  up,  lost  courage,  deserted  him.  And 
now, — I  hand  my  duty  over  to  you." 

"But " 

"  Hush.  Don't  be  shocked — I  have  known  it  for  nearly 
a  year,  and — I  don't  mind — I  am  going  to  die.  It  may  be 
a  few  weeks  or  at  the  outside  it  may  be  a  year.  And — you 
must  take  care  of  him  for  me." 

Beechy  listened  dully,  her  face  almost  stupid.  Then  as 
she  understood,  she  burst  into  tears  and  flung  herself  into 
Lady  Charles's  arms. 

"  Hush,  my  dear,  hush — you  must  not  excite  him — you 
must  not  excite  me." 

After  a  time  the  girl  quieted  herself  arid  put  three  or 
four  sharp  questions.  Was  Lady  Charles  sure  ?  What  was 
it?  Could  she  not  see  other  doctors? 

Lady  Charles  answere'd  her  patiently,  stroking  her 
hair. 

Charles  Cressage  lay  there  in  his  bed,  watching  the  two 
women  whose  lives  he  had  so  strongly  influenced. 

"  Kitty,"  he  said  at  last,  as  Beechy  stood  by  the  fire 
wiping  her  swollen  eyes,  "you  are  the  best  woman  I  ever 
knew  in  my  life,  and  I  believe  you  will  go  to  heaven  and  be 
happy  there.  Kiss  me." 

Tenderly,  but  not  much  impressed  by  his  perfectly  sin- 
cere little  outburst,  she  bent  and  touched  his  brow  with  her 
big  mouth. 

"  Thank  you,  Charles.     Now— talk  to  her." 

She  left  the  room,  and  Beechy  came  back  to  the  bed. 


BEECHY   TAKES   UP  X  NEW  DUTY      381 

"  She — she  is  a  saint,"  the  girl  said,  still  with  a  sob  in 
her  voice. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  gravely.  Then  he  went  on,  "  Beat- 
rice, listen  to  me.  It  is  all  true  what  she  says,  all  true. 
But — I  have  suffered,  dear,  this  past  year,  and — I  don't 
like  to  boast,"  he  smiled,  "  but  I  think  I  have  learned  some 
things.  I  shall  be — good  to  you,  dear.  And  what  is  more, 
I  believe  that  if  a  year  ago  you  and  I  had  been  even  engaged 
to  be  married,  that  would  not  have  happened.  There  was 
never  in  it,  on  my  honour,  one  minute  in  which  I  even 
thought  I  love'd  her.  Some  day  you  will  understand  that 
I  was  in  a — a  queer  position.  And,  what  poor  Kitty  means, 
is  this.  It  is  quite  true  that  she  is  dying.  And  she  wishes 
us,  you  and  me,  to  marry,  as  soon  as — as  it  is  over." 

"Oh,  isn't  she  wonderful,  wonderful?" 

"Yes,  she  is.  And — until  then — we,  you  and  I,  are  to 
be — engaged,  though  of  course,  no  one  shall  know.  It  is 
her  own  idea,  and  her  sincere  wish." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  went  on,  taking  her  hand,  "  will  you  do 
what  she  wishes  ?  " 

"Yes,  Carlo." 

"  And — will  you  try  to  trust  me  ?  I  have  not  deserved 
it,  God  knows,  but — I  will,  in  the  future." 

Beechy  kissed  his  hand.  "  Carlo — I,  too,  have  learned 
some  things,  and — perhaps  I  understand  a  little.  If — if — 
dearest, — there  is  nothing  I  could  not  forgive  you." 

Then  he  took  her  into  his  weak  arms  and  she  laid  her 
head  on  his  breast. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  firelit  room  a  little  clock  struck  six. 

Beechy  rose. 

"  I  must  go  and  look  for  her,"  she  said. 


A    000  051  481     0 


